When Goodbyes Lose Their Meaning
by ShilohPR
Summary: Between Susan's guest -a sassy American expatriate Charlie- and Peter's new love, the prim and proper Lydia, this holiday at the Pevensie home is guaranteed to be anything but boring. And there's nothing like Christmas magic to remember Narnia by. PeterXo
1. Chapter 1

_AN: Just to prevent any confusion: this takes place after Prince Caspian, but sort of disregards books post-Prince Caspian. Some of it might still work, it's just sort of irrelevent. Agewise, Peter is about to graduate uni, so early 20s, Susan's 19ish, Edmund's 16ish, Lucy's 13ish. Any other questions, just ask! And please don't forget to review! :)_

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**When Goodbyes Lose Their Meaning  
Chapter One**

Susan was writing to Peter when Charlotte got back late that night, smelling of rum and buttered croissants. Susan sighed as Charlie giggled a goodbye to whomever had walked her home – some boy, no doubt – then fell onto her bed, stretching her arms and legs as far as they would go. It wasn't that Susan could blame her for these late nights, because she certainly understood that she could never understand the pain unless, heaven forbid, she were in the same situation. It was only that she didn't like it in the least. She worried for Charlotte whole heartedly and wished more than anything she could get her out of Paris. It was just a poisonous environment for her. As if the bad taste left in the city by the war wasn't bad enough, there were the smoky clubs and never-ending parties and the chatty men. And none of the men were any good, of course. Charlie was too good for every single one of them, yet she accepted their amorous whispers and flowers as if there were nothing better in her life.

"Charlotte, what are you doing for Christmas?" Susan asked over her shoulder, not turning from her letter. There was a long pause, and Susan thought maybe she had fallen asleep. She rose and shut the door, turning the lock against the revelers still shouting in the hall. That accomplished, she saw Charlie's round eyes watching her. "Well?"

With a frown, Charlie demanded, "Why would you ask me that?"

"Because I want to know what your plans are. It's coming up, you know."

"Oh believe me, I am well aware! I surely don't need you reminding me how painfully alone I am in this awful country. Did you know, there are paper snowflakes hanging from the trees along the **Champs-Élysées**? I mean, really, there's a war going on! Can't they think of something better to do with their time then to sit there . . . and snip away . . . at pieces of paper? It's shitty, is what it is. I think I'll write them a letter."

"Are you planning on staying here then?" Susan didn't mention that she had no idea what war Charlie was talking about; it was 1948.

Charlie sighed, gave a sardonic laugh and demanded, "Where else am I to go? I can't go home. There's not enough time, and I couldn't afford it even if I had a home to go home to . . . that's a lot of homes." She started laughing and, unable to control herself, laughed herself right out of bed. She landed hard on the floor. Susan gasped; tears fell silently from Charlie's eyes.

"Oh, Charlie, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you," Susan apologized, rushing to her friend and helping her to her feet. Charlie could now hardly stand though and fell back onto her bed.

"You didn't. Only I'm too drunk to talk about Christmas right now. Or the holidays. Or you going away and leaving me, even if it's only for a month, because really Susan you're the only good thing in my life."

"Ohhh," Susan sighed. She quickly joined Charlie on the bed, wrapping her arms around the smaller girl's shoulders and hugging her tightly.

"Now that's not entirely true—"

"Entirely! It is entirely and you know that and I shall be miserable here without you."

Susan frowned and insisted, "But you see, that's why I asked what you were planning! I want to take you home with me." Charlie hiccupped, then pulled away, though her movement was slowed by the drowsy effect of just enough rum.

"What?!"

"Well you see, I had already thought of it because I can't bear the thought of you being here all alone on Christmas. So I wrote my brother – Peter, my older brother – because I've told him all about you, and –"

Charlie wailed, "But Susan, I can't afford a train ticket and you can't afford a spare just like that."

"That's what I'm trying to explain, if you'll let me finish. I wrote my brother Peter because I've been telling him all about you and I was asking if he thought Mum would loan me the money, and he just sent it himself."

"What?!" Charlie repeated. Her brain was too slow to formulate a more coherent reaction at this precise moment.

Susan nodded with an excited grin, "He did! He said he didn't mind helping a friend out, and he agreed with me that you didn't need to be spending the holidays alone here. He's a student too, but he's working. About to graduate, you know. We're all very proud of—but anyways, he sent the money and—"

"But what did he say?" Charlie interrupted, staring at Susan wide-eyed. The concept of someone just buying her a train ticket was as foreign a concept as an English family actually wanting her, a poor American art student, to join them for the holidays.

"Oh, he only joked that it's his Christmas present to you and to tell you Happy Christmas," Susan laughed. She kissed Charlie's cheek and, seeing that she was now too contemplative to be upset, rose and returned to the desk chair.

"This is Peter?" Charlie pressed, trying in her hazy state to get Susan's brothers straight.

Susan hunched back over her letter, but nodded, "Yes, my older brother."

"And your younger brother is Edmund."

"Yes."

"What have you told Peter about me?"

"Oh, everything."

"Not everything!" Charlie gasped, jumping up. Even under the influence, she could recognize that her deterioration of late into the world of parties and socializing – and really, Susan didn't even know the half of it! – was certainly not what she wanted Susan's family hearing of her.

"Oh, not everything. I've painted a very lovely picture of you, don't worry," Susan assured her, and it was only partially a lie. She had told Peter about the deaths in Charlotte's life, and about the ex-fiance, because it had been he that Susan had asked for advice in what to do to help Charlie. She had told him that Charlie was struggling to keep her head above water in Paris, and that she feared Charlie would be completely lost to an awful world if she didn't intervene somehow and soon. That was really what had probably led Peter to hand over the money for the train ticket: clearly Susan was extremely distressed about her dearest friend.

But aside from this, it was true that Susan had bragged to her brother – and to her mother – about Charlotte until Peter had demanded to know if Susan hadn't fallen in love with this girl. She had told him about the creativity, the compassion, the beauty and intelligence and wit. She had explained how entirely elegant Charlotte was, how she seemed absolutely regal, and that word in particular had stood out to Peter.

"A lady of Cair Paravel?" Peter had joked in his last letter, and Susan now answered enthusiastically, "Absolutely. Cair Paravel would be honored to have her in court. She would make a fine princess or queen, I have no doubt."

Charlie had stripped down to her undergarments, and was now slipping beneath the covers, saying, "When you write, tell him that I owe him . . . my . . . I don't know. Think of something for me, will you?"

"You can tell him when you see him," Susan laughed. "Sweet dreams, Lady Charlotte."

"Sweet dreams, Lady Susan," Charlie returned groggily before passing out entirely.

It seemed two of the Pevensies were bringing someone home for the holidays this year, and Peter was all out of money for train tickets.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

Charlie had never been to London before, and that put everything in a new light everything for Susan as well. The trains and ferry rides from Paris to London had been uneventful enough, and Susan complained almost the whole way about the rain and the cold – ailments of Paris, too, that she managed to overlook a bit better in that foreign city. When they stepped out of the train station, Charlie was all eyes, gawking as though she had never seen a platform or dirty urban streets before.

So busy scrutinizing was she that she was only faintly aware when Susan cried out, "Ed!" and went sprinting away. Charlie yanked up her trunk and quickly followed Susan to the lanky, dark-haired boy leaning casually against the wall with his hands in his pockets. He grinned when Susan approached, though, and generously conceded to lean forward for a hug.

"Oh, Ed, I think you're still growing," Susan teased, realizing that for the first time in their lives, his eyes were a good two inches above hers.

He rolled his eyes and shrugged, "Yeah. 'Spect I might get bigger than Peter."

"Well, we'll see about that," she laughed. When Charlie cleared her throat, Susan gasped, "Oh, right. This is my brother Edmund. Ed, this is Charlotte Auburn."

"Hi," he offered simply, holding out his hand to shake. Here, he was clearly much more sociable than Susan gave him credit for. Charlie shook his hand and gave him a warm smile, not missing the slight clumsiness in even his simple greeting, but appreciating it all the more.

"Is everyone home?" Susan pressed as Edmund helped pull the luggage out to the curb.

"No, Peter's not yet. Dad will still be at work but Mum and Lucy are frantically cleaning the house."

Charlie laughed, "They really don't need to! I promise not to look under the rug or behind the vases."

"Well I think you had better promise to so that all their efforts aren't wasted," Susan argued. Mrs. Pevensie had given Edmund money for them to take a cab back, and once again Charlie was overwhelmed with excitement as they slipped into the expansive back seat of an iconic black cab.

"What, never been to London before?" Charlie shook her head at Edmund's question, then nearly squealed with delight as the two middle Pevensie children took to pointing out landmarks, both famous and personal, as they passed. When at last they arrived in the borough, at the familiar home that Susan had lived in her entire life previous to Paris – excepting, of course, her brief stay at the Professor's – Charlie nearly forgot her purse in the backseat; Susan had to grab it for her. She was far too preoccupied with admiring the quaintness of the house. In reality, it was nothing spectacular, just a simple middle-class English suburban home, and yet somehow it seemed to encapsulate for Charlie exactly what she expected of an English home. There were two small, leafless trees in the front yard on either side of the walk leading to the front door, and a low row of shrubbery running all along the front wall. The curtains were pushed back so she could see straight into the living room. Someone, perhaps Susan's younger sister, had hung paper snowflakes in the windows very similar to those she had complained of on the **Champs-Élysées**. Here, though, they fit.

The front door swung open and a young girl just on the brink of her teenage years came sprinting out, light brown hair flying behind her like a cape. She launched herself across the icy sidewalk and into the open arms of Susan, who squeezed her tight and sighed, "Oh, Lucy."

"Susan, I missed you so much!" Lucy cried, burying her face in Susan's neck. That, too, was different; she had been at least a few inches shorter when Susan saw her last. It had only been four months since her last visit, but suddenly Susan felt very much like she was missing seeing Ed and Lucy grow up.

"And you're Charlotte," Lucy stated, apparently proud of herself for figuring this out on her own.

"Good guess, but this is actually Winifred. Charlotte's in the next cab," Edmund teased. Lucy glared playfully and made to hit his arm, but he dodged away, lugging several of the girls' cases with him.

"It's wonderful to meet you, Lucy. I've heard wonderful things about you."

Lucy beamed and insisted, "Susan told me all about you in her letters, about how you used to be an actress but now you want to be an artist . . . Did you ever make a film?"

"Come on, Lucy Loose-lips, help us carry our things in," Susan interrupted, shoving one of her cases into Lucy's hands. Lucy obeyed but hung on to every word from Charlie's lips as she answered vaguely yes, she had done one film, but really, she didn't see what all the fuss was about.

Mrs. Pevensie was waiting just inside the door. Charlie's heart warmed at how strikingly like her mother Susan was in appearance; she loved when families closely resembled each other. The woman waited just long enough for Susan to finish the introduction to give Charlie a warm hug and declare, "We're so glad to have you with us this Christmas, Charlotte. I'm terribly sorry you won't be able to go home, but I do hope you'll make yourself at home here. I know I appreciate what a good friend you've been to Susan—"

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Pevensie, but I'm afraid Susan's been a far better friend to me," Charlie interrupted, and that was just what Mrs. Pevensie wanted to hear. She motioned for them to take the things upstairs; Charlie could have the guest room to herself and Susan could resume her old bed. Lucy hadn't changed much in the bedroom they had always shared, and Susan was secretly glad. It still felt like home.

They returned downstairs, Lucy still badgering Charlie with questions about the movies until Susan demanded she hush or Charlie would never answer a single one of her questions. They were exhausted from their trip, and Charlie could tell stories later. Mrs. Pevensie and Edmund were both in the kitchen, the former putting a pot of tea on the stove and the latter taking a large bite from an apple.

"I thought we should wait until everyone is home to put up the tree," she was saying to her son, as though he didn't already know her plans. It seemed more for the benefit of the girls, as they entered the kitchen. "Perhaps you and Peter and your father can go find a tree tomorrow and you children can decorate it tomorrow night. Do you like to bake, Charlotte?"

"I love to bake! I'm afraid I can't cook hardly at all . . ."

"Well! Neither of my girls can bake a batch of cookies on their own to save their lives," Mrs. Pevensie laughed, earning scowls from both Lucy and Susan. Truthfully, Lucy could follow a recipe if she watched it closely and didn't get distracted, and Susan could do likewise with actual dishes. Her cookies just had a tendency to come out a bit darker than was desired. "I ask because there's a baked goods drive at the church next week, you see, to raise money for charity . . ."

"Mum, aren't you going to let us sleep at all?" Susan asked, but Mrs. Pevensie simply laughed, "Where, Susan, is the fun in that?" Clearly the excitement of having all her little birds returning to the nest was going directly to her head, and Mrs. Pevensie was in an elated state such as the children couldn't remember seeing her . . . possibly since their father returned, basically unharmed, from the war.

Two things then happened at once. The tea began to whistle, and Mrs. Pevensie busied herself pulling it up from the stovetop. Simultaneously, Edmund, peering out the window over the sink, cheered, "Hey, Peter's home!" This, however, was followed by a clearly pregnant pause, a furrowed brow, and a slight frown.

"Ed, what is it?" Susan pressed, stepping closer and leaning over the sink to look out the window also.

"He's got someone with him," Edmund answered, his confusion and discontent only deepening. Mrs. Pevensie and Lucy both glanced over with confused surprise. "A girl someone."

"What!" Lucy cried, darting to the large window in the living room to look out. Mrs. Pevensie did likewise and Charlie, not wanting to be left out and feeling like something monumental was happening, followed them. She felt somewhat silly standing beside the eldest and youngest Pevensie females, looking for the scandal surrounding someone she didn't even know.

Peter, the charitable older brother, must surely resemble their father, because he looked nothing like Mrs. Pevensie. His eyes were blue, his hair blond, and his frame taller and broader than Edmund's, though that certainly could be simply a result of age.

"Do any of us know of any girl?" Mrs. Pevensie quickly asked. "Did he tell me and I forgot?"

Susan shook her head, "I knew he was sort of seeing a girl, but he hadn't said much about her . . . certainly not enough to warrant bringing her home!"

"Is this big?" Charlie asked Lucy in a rather loud whisper.

Lucy nodded, wide-eyed, and whispered back in an equally loud voice, "Peter's never brought a girl home, and always said he wouldn't bother unless . . ."

"You don't think . . ." Susan began.

Mrs. Pevesie shook her head, "Surely not! I'm his mother! Surely he would not go off and get . . . get engaged without even letting me know he was thinking of it first!" However the idea clearly presented itself as a possibility in her head, and she plopped most ungracefully onto the couch, her eyes drifting to the floor with sheer disappointment. Susan sat as well, putting her hand over her mother's, while Lucy and Edmund continued to spy and whisper amongst themselves. The couple had stopped just on the walk because there were too many bags for Peter to carry on his own, and the girl seemed a bit incapable of it herself.

"Well . . ." Charlie mused, sure she was probably overstepping her boundaries but not seeing what else was to be done, "should we go meet them?"

"Yes, yes, that's the logical thing to do," Mrs. Pevensie sighed. She sounded as enthusiastic now about welcoming her eldest son home as one would in going to get the mail which is probably nothing but a pile of bills and notices at any rate. So the lot of them trooped outdoors, no one now saying anything, and Charlotte felt a strange thrill in the pit of her stomach that she was now inside and this Peter fellow was now outside. She couldn't see that lasting long, though, because surely it was wonderful news that their brother had found a sweetheart.

The girl standing beside Peter was about as cute as a button. Even Charlie thought so, and the same was frequently said about her. Her bright blond hair was curled just right, dark chocolate eyes were perfectly rimmed by dark lashes, and soft pink lips rested beneath a just-barely upturned button nose. She was surprisingly tall, taller than Susan and almost as tall as Peter himself; thin and willowy, graceful simply by standing. Both Susan and Charlie were frequently on the receiving end of flattery pertaining to their appearance, and yet both found themselves suddenly frumpy and pale next to this beam of sunlight.

Peter was hugging Mrs. Pevensie and Susan and Lucy and Edmund, apparently oblivious to their stiffness, and also not noticing Charlie in his excitement to introduce this girl. With a broad grin, he announced, "Mum, this is Lydia. Lydia, my mum, Helen Pevensie, and my brother Edmund, and my sisters Susan and Lucy . . . oh, and you must be Susan's friend."

"Yes, Charlotte Auburn," Charlie answered casually, empowered by the lack of conversation from everyone else. It was all right; she could sweep their awkwardness under the rug. It was her little favor to thank them for inviting her for the holiday. "It's a pleasure to meet you both." She shook Lydia's hand as well.

"You are American?" Lydia asked uncertainly, as though fearing embarrassed lest she guess wrong. Charlie really didn't see how she could with a Southern accent like hers . . . but then these people were British. They didn't know the difference between Tennessee and New York. Except Lydia wasn't British.

"Yes," Charlie reassured her, and Lydia was clearly relieved. "You're French? Or Swiss?"

"French." Lydia beamed, happy to have guessed correctly, and even more happy to be identified, though having lived in Paris for five months now, Charlie felt she had an unfair advantage.

Still no one was saying anything, and actually now Peter was beginning to look a bit uneasy, though one look at Lydia returned the smile to his face. Edmund seemed the only other one aware that something needed to happen; the Pevensie women were dumbstruck.

"Uh . . ." he attempted lamely.

Charlotte smiled, for once glad she was adept at handling unconventional situations, and asked Mrs. Pevensie, "The tea was finished just before we came outside, wasn't it? Perhaps Edmund can help them with their bags and we'll help you set out tea?"

"Oh, yes, that's a lovely idea, thank you, Charlotte," Mrs. Pevensie nodded, though still her eyes were distant. "Edmund, would you—"

"Sure, Mum." He seemed simply relieved to have something to do, and now Peter and Lydia both felt at ease again for the same reason, the availability of a distraction.

Susan took Mrs. Pevensie's arm to lead her into the house, muttering only loud enough that Charlie and Lucy could hear, "Honestly, Mum, boys can be so stupid. Not even telling you he was bringing home a girl for the holidays. Honestly! He really is a dumb egg . . ."

Charlie bit her lip and felt much better when Lucy giggled beside her, "Now we have a mysteryous girlfriend and a movie star! This Christmas really couldn't get any better."


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

The guestroom had one large bed in it, and this was the very problem sending Mrs. Pevensie into a stressful tizzy. Susan and Lucy could share the bed, and then Lydia and Charlotte could have Susan and Lucy's room, but that would mean the Pevensie girls would have to constantly be in and out of the guests' room to get their clothing and things. Edmund had snorted that Peter and Lydia could share the guest room and he wouldn't mind sharing with any of the girls; he would prefer that to a lovestruck Peter. Fortunately for him, only Charlotte and Susan heard; the latter glared, the former bit her lip to keep from laughing outright, which Edmund noticed and it made him like her quite a lot. Clearly Susan's friend was much more exciting than ishe/i was.

Charlotte had appeased Mrs. Pevensie by suggesting, "Honestly, I don't mind sharing a bed with Lydia if she doesn't. I'm quite clean," she promised the French girl. She of course would rather have a room to herself or share with Susan, but she hated to see kind Mrs. Pevensie ready to rip her hair out like this.

Poor Lydia was pretty but she wasn't completely stupid, and she was at least partially aware of the stress that her presence had brought with it. After so many weeks of Peter assuring her his family would love her, she hadn't realized he hadn't told them of her. That alone would upset her later on once she got a chance to think about it, but for now she felt out of place and embarrassed. Even Peter suddenly felt like a stranger to her because he was a Pevensie and she wasn't. This was his family, but so far the only person that had seemed genuinely kind to her was this American girl.

With a firm nod, Lydia agreed, "I would not mind this arrangement at all." Secretly, she was glad for it. Perhaps she and this Charlotte could be friends because Peter's sisters didn't seem like they were much looking for a new friend.

There was no arrangement that would make Mrs. Pevensie totally happy, and she bemoaned the size of their house but agreed to Charlotte's suggestion. So the boys carried the things upstairs while Susan and Lucy prepared tea, ordering Mrs. Pevensie and Charlotte to sit and relax. Lydia followed awkwardly, perching on the edge of an armchair with her hands clasped delicately in her lap. She looked like a little doll, and Charlie wondered if it would be too obvious if she copied the pose. But _she_ wasn't a little blond baby doll in any way, and so contented herself with asking Mrs. Pevensie questions about plans she had mentioned earlier to try and calm her.

Tea was progressing rather uncomfortably, and Charlie felt like she and Edmund were doing most of the talking. She made a face at Susan to try and get a laugh, but Susan just smiled and Charlie sighed. This was exhausting and she was beginning to have less fun. She sipped her tea and looked to Lucy, who was twisting her lips trying to think of a thread of conversation everyone could appreciate.

"So . . . how did you meet?" Susan suddenly thought of, directing this towards Peter and Lydia. Peter was leaning against the arm of the chair in which Lydia sat because they were out of seats, and Mrs. Pevensie was trying to decide if she should send her husband out to buy more seating when he got home . . .

At the question, Lydia looked up at Peter with an adoration clear on her face that made Edmund cough and fake vomiting sounds under his breath. Charlotte, who sat between him and Mrs. Pevensie on the sofa, heard and elbowed him in the ribs, painfully missing her own brother. Edmund reminded her very much of him. They would have gotten along beautifully if her brother hadn't gone and died.

Peter beamed as well and explained to his family, "Well, Lydia's father was my professor last spring – my history professor. She came to visit him a few times and I met her when I ran in to him at lunch one afternoon. I mean that I was there with some friends and Professor was there with Lydia, and he introduced us all to her."

"And Peter offered to show me around London. It was quite charming!" Lydia interjected, appearing to swoon. This time Charlie glanced down at her lap to hide her laugh and Edmund nudged _her_ in the ribs.

"Yes, well, Professor turned the offer down," Peter laughed. "But Lydia and I kept in touch – we started writing, you know. Anyways, this fall she decided to come live with her father and we began seeing each other."

"It sounds lovely," Susan offered, trying hard to be supportive. Really, it didn't sound very romantic at all.

"Yes, well . . . it is," Peter returned, and for a moment the two locked eyes in a rather challenging way. Susan looked away, angry, and glanced instead to her friend who seemed simply confused. Poor Charlie, being tossed right into the middle of family drama like this!

Lucy, having remained uncharacteristically quiet, asked, "What about you, Susan? How did you and Charlotte meet?" Charlotte laughed that Lucy would draw a parallel between she and Susan and Peter and Lydia.

Susan seemed delighted at the opportunity to out-romance Peter, though, and explained, "Well, the very first day after I had arrived in Paris, I went walking in Montmartre and got hopelessly lost and then it began to rain. I had an umbrella but there was this poor girl who was caught without anything in the downpour. She had been painting looking down in the cemetery – which is mordibly romantic, I think," and she tossed a quick look to Peter to make sure he caught that this was a _romantic_ story. "She was scrambling to get all her things together so I helped her and shared my umbrella. We were both soaked, though, so she took me back to the place she was staying at the time, which was this awful little place in someone's attic."

Here Charlie laughed and interrupted, "It wasn't so bad. I've stayed in far worse before."

"Well, at any rate, we got to be fast friends, and a week later her building burned to the ground."

"It didn't!" Lucy gasped.

Charlie nodded, "It did. But few of my things were lost because the fire didn't reach the attic. Only I had to send the landlord to retrieve my things for me because they closed the house. The stairs collapsed just after they got my trunk down."

"Yes, and she came to me. _I_ didn't have a roommate so I just invited her in."

"You are an artist?" Lydia asked Charlotte.

"She's an actress!" Lucy anwered excitedly.

"I _was_ an actress . . . I suppose," Charlotte admitted. "And now I don't know that I'm much of an artist, but I'm working on it. I'm in art school right now."

"It sounds lovely," Peter offered, looking at Susan instead of Charlotte.

Susan answered coldly, "Oh, it is."

Lucy sighed and popped her chin in her hands.

Dinner wasn't much better, though Mr. Pevensie's inability to understand his wife's distress did help a bit. He greeted both Lydia and Charlotte with firm handshakes that hurt Lydia's fingers but made Charlotte laugh when he noted she had a good, strong grip. It was something she was told was very _American_ about her, that she shook hands like a man. Mrs. Pevensie had pulled her husband into another room to explain to him how much stress she was now under, and why hadn't Peter _told_ her about this girl and that she would be coming home with him.

"For the same reason I haven't the faintest idea when your birthday is, my love," Mr. Pevensie had laughed loudly enough to be heard in the dining room, where Susan and Charlotte were setting the table. "Because we're men!" This had not been the answer Mrs. Pevensie wanted and she had pouted all through dinner.

He was certainly right in his declaration, though, that Peter had meant no harm in bringing Lydia home. He was simply a lovestruck young man eager to introduce his family to this beautiful girl that loved him back, and it had never occurred to him that he hadn't told his mother about her, or that arrangements would need to be made. He _had _at least considered that it would be a big deal because it _was_ a big deal, and that was why he had been so willing to help Susan bring her friend home. Having two guests would take some of the pressure off of Lydia, because he knew she was easily overwhelmed, and his family was quite overwhelming as it was. It had just been dumb luck that Susan's guest was as helpful and easy-going as she was, because Peter certainly hadn't missed how quickly Lydia had latched on to her, nor that it had been she that kept his mother from blowing a gasket in front of them all. He sincerely appreciated it and would need to thank her later. However, in his devotion to Lydia, Peter quite forgot about the rest of his siblings. He was angry with Susan for being angry at _him_, but Edmund and Lucy . . . why, he had hardly said two words to the pair of them.

And though Charlotte hadn't realized this, she did notice that Lucy seemed to grow quieter and quieter as the evening wore on. She even forgot to ask Charlotte about the movies, which Charlotte granted had been sort of dreading all night any ways. Mrs. Pevensie and Susan noticed the mood, but took it to be overwhelmed exhaustion, and Mrs. Pevensie herself retired alarmingly early, her nerves frazzled. The children were left to entertain themselves since Mr. Pevensie quickly followed his wife, winking at the kids and assuring them that the excitement of having everyone come home at once was simply too much.

To pass the evening, Charlie suggested a game of blow-ball, which Edmund readily agreed to because _he_ was bored out of his mind by all the drama. To everyone's surprise, Susan agreed to play as well, and this finally brought a smile to Lucy's face as she pointed out,

"But Su, I thought you were too _serious_ for games like this."

"Yes, well living with Charlotte has dumbed me down a bit," Susan laughed, earning a playful shove from her roommate. Lucy's smiled only last until Peter declined to play, instead settling down near the fire to talk quietly with Lydia.

"Ugh, better off without the lovebirds anyways," Edmund insisted and took his position beside Susan on one end of the table after retrieving a table tennis ball from his room. Lucy and Charlie were the other team, the point of the game being to blow the ball over the other team's edge. The difficulty was that the ball kept wanting to go sideways, and that all the blowing eventually left them light-headed. They collapsed after playing for quite a while in the den only to find that Peter and Lydia had both already retired, not even bothering to say good-night.

"Well I _sure_ hope they are both in their own rooms," Susan huffed, leading the way upstairs for bed. She was very relieved when, hugging Charlie at the door of the guest room, she saw Lydia sleeping peacefully inside, alone. "I'm sorry you have to share with her."

"Oh, I'm not. It's not a big deal, really. Good night!" Susan disappeared into her own room, and Charlie changed into her nightgown before realizing she had left her necklace downstairs, having taken it off for the sake of the game. It was difficult to play with her pearls swinging back and forth against her throat.

Throwing on a robe, she ventured back down in the dark and found not only her necklace, but the youngest Pevensie child, sitting on the carpet before the dying fire and clutching her knees to her chest. She glanced quickly over her shoulder at the footsteps, but seemed relieved to see Charlotte, and the older girl took this as an invitation to join her.

"Everything all right?" she asked, plopping down onto the carpet and stretching her feet nearer the glowing embers.

Lucy nodded, but then sighed, "I miss my brother."

"What?"

"Peter. I miss him." Despite her vagueness, Charlie understood the point, and that made Lucy relax even more. She felt comfortable because here was someone who understood her.

"I know. It's not fun when your brothers and sisters start growing up and you're still a kid. Trust me, I know."

"It's not just that, though, it's Peter especially. He's the oldest, but until today he was still . . . I mean, Susan was a grown up by the time she was my age," Lucy admitted with a laugh. "But Peter, even when he's being all responsible and adult-like, he was still my best friend. He would still play."

Charlie nodded, "Yes, well the difference now is that he was just a grown up kid, but now he's an adult."

"But why?"

"That's the route some people choose to go."

"It's because of _her_, isn't it," Lucy sighed, stretching her legs alongside Charlotte's.

"Maybe partially. Maybe to impress her, or as a result of being in a serious relationship, or maybe from being about ready to graduate uni, or maybe just because he's getting older."

"But it's not fair."

"I know."

"He wouldn't even play with us. He just wanted to talk to _her_."

"Well give them some time. Maybe once she's more comfortable around us, they'll both want to play. Or maybe not. But either way, you don't have to lose your brother, just get used to a change in him. It's your only choice, really."

"But we didn't have to wait for you to get used to us," Lucy pointed out.

Charlie laughed, "That's because I'm an odd turkey."

"And you're Susan's age but you don't act like an adult."

"Gee, thanks."

"It's a good thing!"

"Yes, well, I had a taste of being an adult for a while, and I didn't really like it. I'd much rather be a grown up kid."

Lucy grinned and nodded, "Me too!"

"And I believe Edmund is like us in that," Charlie mused which made Lucy laugh and nod.

"Yeah, he still is pretty stupid sometimes. Well, Peter and Susan are too, but in an iadult/i way."

"Yes. And I know it's awful. I remember when my brother and sisters started growing up, I was miserable. I'm the youngest of six, you know."

"You are?"

"I am," Charlie repeated. "And I promise, there are worse things that could happen than Peter growing up. Just be happy that he seems pretty happy."

"He does, doesn't he?" Lucy sighed, letting her head fall onto Charlie's shoulder. "It _is_ good to see him so happy . . . well, I guess we're all just lucky to have you here, then. Susan seems happier, too, and . . . and between you, me, Ed, and Susan, we can have a great holiday!"

"We sure can," Charlotte agreed. Lucy was excited, and though both knew it was only partially genuine – because the loss of Peter to the adult world did hurt a lot – she did honestly feel a little bit better. After a while, Lucy yawned and sighed that she should get to bed. Charlie agreed and pulled Lucy to her feet, then felt her insides warm considerably when Lucy gave her a tight hug. So this was what it felt like to have a younger sister, perhaps. Charlotte liked the feeling and wondered why her siblings had always complained so much. But then, she probably hadn't been as sweet as Lucy.

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_Hey guys! Please review if you'd like to see more!_


	4. Chapter 4

_Hey guys, I'm so sorry for the lag in updates. I had Thanksgiving holiday, followed by the worst two weeks of finals I have ever had in my life, and then I literally made myself sick from teh stress. But I'm home for the holidays now and back to updating, and here we are with chapter four! _

ALSO _if you're enjoying this or my other Narnia story "Gemstone," please head on over to Narnia Fanfiction Revolution and nominate me. :) I would certainly be honored!_

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**Chapter Four**

The next day, Finchley and the greater London area were blanketed with a solid layer of white. Though it was quickly churned and stomped into an ugly grey sludge in the streets, the front yard remained pristinely untouched until finally, after lunch, Lucy begged,

"Oh please can't we build a snowman?"

"Aren't you thirteen yet?" Edmund teased, rolling his eyes, and even Susan moaned, "Oh, but it's so cold, Lu."

"Well that's no good now, is it?" Charlie sighed, pushing herself up from the couch. "What plan of action is it to leave a house of royalty like this completely unguarded?" Peter's and Ed's eyebrows raised and they looked quickly to Susan who tried to subtly shake her head that no, she hadn't said anything. But Charlie, oblivious to this, continued, "Why, what's to stop anyone from waltzing on in here and kidnapping Princess Lucy right from under our very noses?"

"Actually, I'm a _queen_!" Lucy giggled.

"All right, _Queen_ Lucy! It's a downright shame. Come, Lucy, I will help you build some snowmen guards."

Ed suddenly laughed, "Well when you put it that way, I suppose I can't in good conscience leave Queen Lucy to mortal peril. And who's to stop someone from sneaking up and attacking you girls while you build? I suppose King Edmund shall have to come and see that things stay sorted."

"Swell!" Charlie laughed, and of course if they were going Susan would come, just for a little while.

"King Peter?" Lucy pleaded, turning her wide eyes on her oldest brother who had been laughing at the joke with them all as he sat on the floor between the fire and Lydia in an armchair.

"I'll be out in a few, Lu."

"Marvelous, now let's get bundled up." So they layered on coats and scarves and hats and gloves and soon even adult Susan was to be found rolling and packing snow to build two snowmen guards to stand on either side of the path. Charlotte had to confess that her eagerness to build the snowmen was because she had never actually done so, but Lucy and Ed were more than happy to show her how to round the body segments and balance them atop each other.

They had almost got one body fully erected when Peter and Lydia stepped outside, both wrapped in their outdoor gear. Lucy clapped to see her brother joining them, but as soon as she had called his name out, he and Lydia strode past.

"We're just going for a walk down the street, Lu, we'll be right back," he offered, holding his hands up as though there was nothing to be done for it. Lydia giggled and whatever slightly apologetic look he had given his sister melted into a grin as he looped Lydia's arm through his and they set off down the street together. Susan and Edmund just rolled their eyes and began work on the other snowman, but it took a nudge and an encouraging smile from Charlotte to get Lucy refocused.

By the time Peter and Lydia returned, the builders had retreated inside to warm their frozen fingers around steaming mugs of spiced cider. Instead two snowguards stood in the yard to greet them, armed with the wooden swords Mr. Pevensie had given Peter and Edmund when they were little boys pretending to be knights. The embers hadn't wanted to stay in the snowheads, so instead Ed had gotten his shoeshine and they'd painted eyes on, and the carrots went several inches into their heads, and a few of the red hard candies Susan had thought to use as mouths had fallen, giving the snowmen gap-toothed grins. Spare scarves had been used –one of Peter's and one of Mrs. Pevensie's—and one wore Susan's old school cap while the other sported a beret of Charlotte's. They were about the least-intimidating guards Peter had ever seen, but still he announced as he entered,

"Well we just barely managed to creep past these guards. It took an awful lot to convince them I'm the high king and all."

"It's because they haven't seen you yet, and people rarely trust royals when they haven't ever seen them," Lucy retorted, then coldly turned her back to him.

Lydia merely praised, "Ah, they are lovely! I love the French one."

"French one?" Ed asked but Susan elbowed him and Charlotte muttered under her breath, "It's true, Ed. Simply wearing a beret makes you French. Why, when I put mine on, subitement je parle le français!" He laughed so hard he spilled his cider on his lap and leapt up, frightened it might burn something valuable. This got Lucy and Susan to laughing and perhaps it's fair to say that Peter felt genuinely left out as he helped Lydia off with her coat and saw how quickly he had apparently been replaced. And actually, they seemed to be getting along much better under this Charlotte's rule than they ever had under his own.

Peter and Edmund had only enough time to regain feeling in their fingers and toes when suddenly Mr. Pevensie was returning from work early and Mrs. Pevensie was shooing them out the door to get the tree while she and "the girls" cooked supper. Off the boys went, and into the kitchen the girls trooped, though Lydia and Charlotte were instructed to sit and chat while the Pevensie women worked.

Supper was civil, and then Peter and Mr. Pevensie wrangled the tree into its stand and the girls admired the boys' choice, though Ed muttered to Susan and Charlotte, "It was my decision. Peter just mooned over whether you girls were making Lydia feel welcome or not."

Lydia, however, overheard this, and insisted loudly with a bright smile, "Oh they made me feel very welcome! Everyone here is so very kind." Charlotte patted her hand, Lucy coughed, and Susan quickly suggested they get the ornaments out.

Mr. and Mrs. Pevensie –who in the adult world are called John and Helen—sat back on the couch to watch their children with glowing faces as the decorating began, the fire dancing orange and red on the walls. The girls had strung popcorn and cranberries to loop in between the ornaments, and Mr. Pevensie had bought a package of candy canes on his way home from work. There were handmade ornaments from childhood to tuck in among the branches, as well as a dozen glass balls that had always been Susan's favorites. They looked like bubbles frozen and captured for the sole purpose of dangling elegantly from their tree. As a little girl she had spun around in circles and then squinted her eyes so that suddenly it looked like the bubbles were floating again.

"Charlie, what was Christmas like where you grew up?" Lucy asked innocently as she stretched to hang a candy cane on a branch above her head. Charlotte moved to help but realized she actually wasn't any taller, so instead moved so Ed could help.

"Not so elegant as this," she shrugged. "I mean, not as a little girl. We were just a farm family in southern Oklahoma and didn't have much to work with."

"Lydia, what about Christmases in France?" Peter asked.

Lucy glared, "She wasn't finished, Peter."

"All right, sorry. I was just trying to get a cross-culture comparison—"

"Oh, Christmas in France is wonderful!" Lydia exclaimed, bringing her hands together. "We have a tree, too, only much bigger than this, and—"

"How many brothers and sisters did you have?" Ed asked Charlie, who would have felt rude to not answer,

"I was the youngest of six, but—"

"Didn't your oldest sister start having kids young, too? And she was quite a bit older than you."

"I can't hear what Charlie is saying, Peter, could you shut your mouth?"

"I wasn't saying anything, Lucy!"

"—Papa brings home beautiful lace and silk for us to adorn the boughs with—"

"Six! Geez, I can hardly deal with the three I've got—"

"Children . . ." Mrs. Pevensie began, sitting up straighter and sharing a look with Mr. Pevensie.

"America! America!" Lucy suddenly yelled. "I don't want to hear about France, I want to hear about America!"

"Well then move closer to her so you can hear her!" Peter retorted.

"_She_ has a name—"

"I don't care; I don't have to use it; you know who I—"

"—and you're being rude not to use it and I don't care about France!"

"Now you're dragging _my_ friend into this, Peter," Susan suddenly interrupted, crossing her arms over her chest. Peter didn't notice her, though; he and Lucy were staring hard at each other.

"Put the star on the tree, Lucy," Peter offered through his clenched jaw, holding out the top ornament in what read as a completely insincere peace offering. Lucy narrowed her eyes, then let out a frustrated huff and stomped off to the couch, where she threw herself down beside her parents in a decisive pout. They, not knowing what to do, glanced frantically between their children, not quite sure where the peaceful scene had gone wrong.

Charlotte really wasn't offended, though it looked as though Susan was highly offended on her behalf, but she did notice Lydia looking uncomfortable and guilty. She pitied the poor girl, and asked gently, "Have you any siblings, Lydia?"

"Oh, no, it is only myself."

"Well don't be too alarmed. Sibling spats are perfectly common."

"Not in this house," Peter hissed, then turned and strode angrily upstairs.

"Wait for it . . ." Edmund ordered, pointing at the ceiling. Four seconds passed before they heard the door slam and he laughed, but no one laughed with him.

Mrs. Pevensie was standing now and insisted, "Honestly, children, I don't know what just happened, but I –Lydia, Charlotte, this doesn't apply to you—but the rest of you!"

"Oi! Not me, too," Edmund insisted. "I say point the fingers at Peter and Lucy."

"Me! Why, Peter's being an absolute beast," Lucy insisted.

"Enough!" Mr. Pevensie interrupted, rising as well. "That will be quite enough. Will _someone_ put the star on the tree and we'll call it a night?" In the silence, Charlie grabbed the star from where Peter had tossed it onto the armchair, then stood on the foot stool to perch it on top.

"This is my fault, isn't it?" Lydia moaned in French not much later when she and Charlotte were alone, preparing for bed.

Charlotte shook her head and replied in English, "Oh, you can't assume that. This is my first time, too, so it's just as likely my fault. But really, it is quite normal for brothers and sisters to spat like that. Really. Don't feel the least bit bad about it."

"Thank you. I'll try not to lose sleep," Lydia sighed, then gave Charlotte a tight hug. "You are a sweet doll. I am so grateful you are here with me. Only knowing you speak French will brighten my mood." Then she rolled over and went to sleep, leaving Charlotte wondering how Lydia had known she spoke French.

In Paris, though, Charlotte had become accustomed to late nights out, and so after tossing and turning for some time decided to embrace that she would not feel tired for a few hours yet. The Pevensies had several bookcases in their living room and the fire was not quite dead, so after slipping on a robe, Charlotte tiptoed down and soon was trying to engage herself in a book. She had never been much of a reader, though.

A noise in the kitchen made her peer around the chair, which she had turned to face the almost extinguished fire. A moment later, Peter emerged with a glass of water. His eyes widened when he saw her, surprised to be caught.

"Sorry, did I make a racket?"

"Oh, no, you're all right," she assured him, which he apparently took as leave to come closer.

"What are you reading?" he asked casually, sipping his water.

"_Trying_ to read," she corrected. "And not doing so well. I'm afraid I've spoiled myself to a lifestyle that's far from content to sit by a dying fire and read books into the night."

He cracked a small smile, "So I hear."

"Well, of the things you hear, the bad things are all lies and the good things are all true," she assured him. "And the name is Charlotte, by the way. Or Charlie. I'm not sure we've met proper; I saw you struggle with my name earlier." She held out her hand and he gave her a suspicious look before shaking his head and chuckling. "All right, then, I was only being polite."

"Oh, I'll shake your hand," he laughed, reaching forward and doing so. "But I know who you are. I was just so mad . . ."

"So I heard."

Apparently Peter had been waiting for just someone to give him the chance to vent, and Charlie just happened to be that person. He quickly blurted out, "I don't know what's gotten into her! She's never been like this before. But . . . well-" he suddenly gave Charlie a suspicious look. "You aren't just Charlotte Auburn, though, you're also the girl Lucy has latched onto."

"I am."

"Which means you probably know _precisely_ what's got her so upset."

"I do."

He pursed his lips in thought, then offered, "I have a domino set, if your book isn't too intriguing."

"I would."

"Would?"

"Rather play dominos with you than try to read," she laughed, returning the book to its shelf. Peter retrieved the set from his room, then resurrected the fire while Charlie set their playing space up on the rug before it.

They played mostly in silence for a few minutes before Peter, on Charlotte's move, mentioned, "I'm sorry I interrupted you earlier, by the way. When you were talking about America."

"That's all right. I didn't much want to talk about it anyways."

"Why not? Damn, I'm stuck . . ."

She shrugged, "I just don't want to be thinking about my family at the holidays when I can't be with them, you know? We're scattered to the winds. I'd much rather think about here and now, about Paris and now London."

"Susan mentioned Paris has a lot of unhappy memories for you too."

"So you wanted to know about Lucy?"

"Sorry," he winced. "I didn't mean to mention anything bad."

"You didn't; just stepped on my toes a bit."

"But yes, Lucy. Why _is_ she being like this?"

Charlie shook her head, "Boys really are dense, aren't you?" When he protested, she continued, "It should be obvious. You bring a girl home that no one knows about and suddenly you don't want to do anything with your siblings. Lucy feels completely left out and replaced by Lydia."

"What? But why?"

"I just told you," Charlie rolled her eyes. "Everything is Lydia this, Lydia that. I'm not blaming you for that. I've been newly in love; I understand. But I've also been on Lucy's end and it's just hard to realize that your brother has grown up and you're still a kid and no longer number one in his life."

"Luc will always be number one in my life," Peter insisted.

"Practically? Or sentimentally?"

"I don't even know what that means," Peter laughed. "But I get your point." He stopped to figure out his move, then asked, "But what can I do about it?"

"Just try and be the same brother you were. You can do that _and_ include Lydia. In fact, all you're really doing is keeping your siblings from getting to know her at all. Unless that's your plan, but really she seems perfectly normal to me."

"It's just strange bringing a guest into the family. Trying to balance family and Lydia when really . . ."

"All you want to do is spend time with Lydia?"

"Yeah," he admitted, staring down at the pieces shyly.

"Well there's no reason you can't see her for the rest of your life, but you definitely don't want to alienate your family in the process. You can spend time with everyone at the same time, though, without letting it change you. Susan has—"

"No, Susan is so different with you here. Out building snowmen in the cold . . . that's very unlike her. She's certainly changed for the better, thanks to you, I suppose."

"No, probably thanks to Paris. It's a fun city. Have you ever been?"

"Once, for a weekend. It was all right," he shrugged, then gasped, "But don't tell anyone! Su would kill me if she knew I was there and didn't ring her."

"My lips are sealed," she promised, pantomiming locking her lips and tossing away the key.

A few more turns passed before Peter asked, "But what about you? You said you were in Lucy's position. With all your brothers or—"

"No, it was hardest with one in particular. He and I were extremely close."

"Like me and Lucy, I guess. But did you ever come to like his . . . his fiancé or wife?"

"Is that what she is? Your fiancé?"

"No!" he quickly answered. "Not . . . yet."

She laughed and patted his hand, then mused a bit more somberly, "I believe she was good to him. I haven't heard from her in a long time. Things happened very quickly once they got engaged, and then he was off to the war and I was off to Paris . . ."

"And you're still close now?"

"He, um, actually died a few months ago," she shared, her eyes suddenly boring intently into the black dots on the domino pieces.

Peter inhaled sharply, "Sorry. Susan told me . . . I should have assumed—"

"It's all right. You shouldn't have assumed anything. And we were very close, yes."

"Well that's good, at least."

"I guess."

"Better to have loved and lose—"

"Never give grieving people quotes," she snorted. "They sound hollow. And besides, whoever said that clearly didn't _keep_ losing."

"If it makes you feel any better, you have now apparently replaced me in my own family. All hail High Queen Charlotte." Charlotte liked that very much and laughed.

"You just need to relax and have fun. Lydia would probably appreciate it, too. She was worried tonight that all the fighting is her fault, and you certainly didn't help her with your little one-liner earlier."

He frowned, "Right. She's sensitive . . . well, actually, she's usually rather oblivious to it all, but she feels awful when people are unhappy around her."

"I noticed that. She's a sweet girl."

"She is," Peter agreed and looked genuinely pleased to hear it from Charlotte. "Seems I'm simply surrounded by sweet girls."

"I'm going to take that as a compliment about me as well as Lucy and Susan."

He snorted, "Oh, you Americans. All you do is take and take."

"Hey!" Charlie laughed and threw a domino, pegging him square in the chest.

He glanced at it, then grinned, "Ooh, thanks, just the one I needed!"

"Fine, that was your Christmas present. Enjoy. Now my go."

By the time they were out of pieces, score had completely been forgotten and the fire was dying again, and when Peter offered to clean up Charlie let him, bidding him goodnight and scurrying up through the dark house to her bed beside Lydia. The French girl was snoring to wake the dead. 'I hope Peter knows what he's getting into with this,' Charlie laughed to herself before plugging her ears, rolling over, and dozing into a fitful sleep logged with memories of home.


	5. Chapter 5

_Here's my Christmas present to y'all; another chapter! If you're feeling jolly . . . some lovely reviews for Christmas would be marvellous :)_

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**Chapter Five**

The world was still white the next day, but Mrs. Pevensie had work for the children. A woman with a large heart, every Christmas season she baked a gross of cookies to be sold at St. Michael's bakesale, which would take place Sunday afternoon between the worship service and the evening Christmas choir concert. The Pevensies weren't a particularly religious family and mainly only attended service on holidays, but Mrs. Pevensie was frequently involved with charitable work around the holidays. Besides, seeing as every year many of the students she taught sang in the Christmas choir concert, it had become a tradition of the Pevensies to attend.

It was only Friday now, but Mrs. Pevensie thought with the extra help of two girls they could make an extra two dozen cookies to deliver to some of their kind neighbors. However, what she hadn't considered was the sheer logistics of having five women in the Pevensie's small kitchen at once. Lydia was eager to help but had next to no domestic skills, and Charlotte didn't know where anything was. Susan never had been much of a baker and Lucy couldn't keep her mind on one task at a time. The result was that Peter and Edmund made themselves scarce so as not to have to listen to the gossip and chaotic giggles, and the girls spent the better part of the day slaving away in a boiling kitchen, churning out cookies.

"Like a factory of elves. That's what we are," Charlie mused, trying to wipe a smudge of flour from Susan's cheek. That only made it worse. She tried again, then gave up and ran all four of her floury fingers down the side of Susan's face, who squealed and pulled away before reaching forward with her own dusted hands and shoving Charlie playfully; two floury handprints remained on her dress.

Charlie gasped but before she could retaliate, Lucy scolded, "Girls, girls, act proper now."

"Oh, please, mum, but proper's no fun at all," Charlie teased with a mock-accent, jabbing her fingers into Lucy's sides to make her giggle.

"What's no fun at all; aren't these cookies done yet?" Peter demanded, striding into the kitchen with Edmund.

Ed recoiled and made a face, "What is there an open flame in here? It's boiling, Mum!" She looked up at him as she set a cookie sheet down and her face, like all the girls, was bright red and glistening. Even Lydia's normally perfect coloring showed signs of fluster; she had been trying awfully hard to be of use and agreeable to the Pevensie women.

Peter reached for a cookie from the fresh plate and Charlie instinctively slapped his hand away. His pout made Lydia giggle and point to another plate, "There, Peter. You can have the cookies on that plate."

"But these are burnt!" Edmund sighed only seconds before Peter complained of the same thing.

"Exactly," Lucy teased. "The rest are for _good_ little girls and boys."

Charlie noticed Susan quirking an eyebrow and pressed, "What?"

"I didn't know you were on terms to slap my brother's hand . . ." she muttered but Charlie just laughed, "Oh, I don't have to be on terms with anyone. Come here, Edmund, let me slap your hand."

"What? No!" Ed frowned, clutching his hand possessively against his chest. Susan tapped Charlie's forehead playfully, then tugged on one of the small curls that had loosened from Charlie's bun to frame her face in the heat of the kitchen.

"Well girls, I believe that was the last batch. We'll have to let them cool for a bit before we bag them up . . . why don't you children go relax for a while and then the _boys_ can help bag them up?"

"That does mean counting to twelve. Do you think you can handle it?" Lucy asked Peter, then quickly looked away, realizing whom she was speaking to.

Peter leaned closer to answer, "I don't know . . . I always get a little muddled around eleven."

"I have an idea. Why don't . . . we go have a snowball fight? Vent some of this holiday anger?" Charlie suggested, already grabbing Lucy's arms and running for their coats.

Edmund groaned, "I _hate_ snowball fights," and Susan whined, "Charlotte, it'll be dreadful cold and we're damp. We'll catch our deaths of cold."

"Then don't come!" she called back through the house, shoving her arms into her coat.

"Oh, I really hate this girl," Ed sighed, stomping off towards them.

Lydia whispered to Peter, "I think he just hates that she isn't younger," which made Peter throw his head back to laugh.

"I ought to make sure they're wrapping up proper," Susan sighed, though by the time Peter and Lydia were to the entry way, Susan too was wrapping her scarf snuggly around her fair throat.

Lucy suddenly turned to Peter and frowned, "I guess you're not going to come, are you?" Over her shoulder, Peter saw the pointed look Charlie gave him, as though worried he would be daft enough to miss the importance of this question.

"Is that a challenge?" Peter demanded of his youngest sister, standing tall and raising his chin. "I'll have you know, High King Peter has _never_ turned down a challenge." He glanced at Lydia to see if this activity was okay, but she smiled and was already slipping on her own white overcoat.

Fortunately Charlotte was able to quickly figure out how to apply her snowpacking lessons from the day before to making snowballs, because as soon as the Pevensies were out of doors the war was on. Lucy let the first ball fly at Peter, who hit Edmund, who hit Susan, who hit Charlie, and from there there was no telling who hit who. Snowballs flew back and forth across the yard, occasionally knocking into the snowguards, though some attempt was made to avoid this lest their hard work from the day before be undone. The two trees were bare and far too scrawny to offer any sort of shelter, so the children had only each other and the snowguards to block themselves from projectiles.

Lydia remained sheltered by the front door, cheering or yelling out warnings. Occasionally a snowball would fly towards her, causing her to shriek and step away. She was not a big fan of snow in general: that is, she liked the way it looked from indoors, but much preferred to watch the flakes from beside the warm hearth in her family's estate. When Peter finally noticed her lack of involvement he tried to coax her into the game, which she politely refused. He decided he should probably not play if Lydia wasn't in it, but by then the game had ended at any rate and so Lucy didn't have to know about his change of heart. Charlie and Susan threw themselves onto the snowy yard as Susan explained about snow angels, and Lucy begged Edmund to help her make repairs on the damaged snowguards.

"This is awful," Charlotte laughed, squirming when the snow was pushed into her clothing as she flapped her arms and legs. "It's all in my mittens and down my coat and up my skirt. Snowangels – who does this for fun? Oh, I think I'm stuck!"

"Here, I'll get you," Susan assured her, carefully pushing herself up from her own creation. She leaned over to try and get Charlotte's hand without messing up the angel, but as soon as she started to pull she over balanced and crashed down on top of Charlotte.

There were shrieks and squirming until Ed came lumbering over and helped them up, muttering, "Leave it to Ed to sort things out."

"Well . . . yours is pretty," Lucy said to Susan as she, Peter, and Lydia came closer to inspect the angels.

Peter snorted and looked sideways, "Yours looks a bit like . . . like an octopus bursting from an angel's belly."

"That's awful!" Lydia scolded, giving him a stern look, but Charlotte laughed and insisted that was the look she was going for.

"I am an artist, after all," she reminded at they made their way back into the house, stomping in the doorway to knock the snow from their boots and coats. It fell in small piles, and their coats and scarves continued to drip on the entryway floor as the warmth of the house thawed the war wounds.

This reminded Lucy, who gasped, "Oh, but you're an actress! Won't you tell us stories of being in the films? Did you go to any premieres and have you met celebrities? Judy Garland – did you ever meet her?"

"Perhaps later, Lucy. Right now, we probably should go back those cookies wrapped before Peter eats them all," Charlie teased, giving him a stern look as he tried to subtly sneak a cookie from the rack. He quickly popped it into his mouth and held his empty hands up.

When he grinned, showing the cookie instead of his teeth, Charlie rolled her eyes but Lydia scolded, "Oh, Peter darling, don't do that. How crude."

The snowball fight seemed to have taken enough out of everyone that cookie-packaging went without incident, as did dinner. Afterwards, as though seeing in Lucy's eyes that she was going to ask about Hollywood, and knowing Charlotte really didn't want to speak about it much, Susan suggested they dust off the Wurlitzer upright piano in the corner and sing a few Christmas songs.

"Charlie plays, Mum, so you can just relax and sing," Susan insisted when Mrs. Pevensie looked uncertain. Having to cook three meals on top of the fourteen dozen cookies, she was exhausted and wanted nothing more than to relax with her head on her husband's shoulder while he read the post. They looked awfully sweet together, and Charlie wished her parents had ever been that affectionate towards each other. But then six children, the Great Depression in the Dustbowl, and a cross-country migration to the overhyped hills and valleys of California would take a toll on any marriage.

"You play?" Lucy asked with excitement, gripping Charlie's arm and leading her to the instrument.

"Lydia plays too," Peter offered but no one heard him.

"I learned from my Grandma when I was a little girl. Then, when we moved to California, I played in saloons for tips," Charlotte explained as Susan ran a cloth over the keys and pulled the bench out for her.

"What's a saloon?"

"Not any place for young ladies to be, that's for sure," Susan insisted, and Charlotte agreed, "Yes, but times were tough. It was a way to earn money so we could eat . . . what song shall we start with?" Susan had an old Christmas music book from when Mrs. Pevensie had tried to teach her as a child –unsuccessfully; Susan had no ear at all for music—so they began with "When You Trim Your Christmas Tree" and from there went on to "White Christmas" and "Winter Wonderland," and Charlie taught them a new song, "A Merry American Christmas." Even Edmund sang, or at least mumbled along, and the fire danced in the hearth and the candles hummed against the frosted windowpanes as a light snow fell in the dark evening outside. Lucy's sweet piping voice skipped along above Lydia's airy whisper and Susan's and Peter's middletones and Mr. Pevensie's sonorous hum. It was Charlie's strong vocal acrobatics that made Lucy sigh that she felt like she was straight in the films herself right then, and when the room as quaint and warm as it was, Charlotte agreed. She couldn't ever remember a cozier Christmastime.

The realization actually made her a bit mellow, though not enough for anyone save Susan to really notice. Eventually goodnights were handed around and sleepy bakers and warriors trooped up to beds. Charlotte let Susan hug her outside her room and beg her to not think too hard but just enjoy herself. Secretly, Susan couldn't have been more glad they were safely in Finchely and not in Paris; this was the first time Charlotte had shown the slightest sadness since they had arrived in London, so clearly the change in scenery was doing her good. Not to mention, it was for the best that Charlie didn't have a city of overly-friendly gentlemen callers at her beckoning here, because Susan had learned the order. Something made Charlotte think of home or her family or that awful boy, and so she went out for a night on the town, which only resulted in drinking and whispered amorous declarations, which only made her even _more_ depressed.

"Do you want me to sit up with you for a bit?" Susan asked, clutching Charlotte tightly.

"Oh, no, I'll be all right. I think I'll go eat some of the burnt cast-offs and read by the fire. I'll be all right." Susan nodded, kissed her cheek, and slipped into her own room where Lucy was already dozing, exhausted after a full day.

Charlotte felt her way through the dark house to the kitchen, only to notice the light on and one Peter Pevensie rifling through an already sealed bag of cookies. He froze with his hand still in the bag and a cookie sticking from his mouth when he felt a presence behind him. Slowly he turned to find Charlie leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed and eyebrow quirked.

"It's . . . not what it looks like."

"Really? Because it looks like you've decided to purchase a dozen of our cookies, payment due at the bakesale on Sunday," she quipped, brushing past him to pull a burnt cookie off the plate.

He groaned, "I shouldn't have to pay for cookies in my own house!"

"You don't, if you make do with the burnt ones. They're just as good, just a bit crunchier."

"Crunchy cookies—" Peter started to grumble, but stopped short when Charlie mused, "But then I guess High Kings aren't used to _making_ _do_ with anything, are they?"

Instead he choked on his cookie before demanding, "Beg pardon?"

"High King. That's what you keep calling yourself, isn't it? And Lucy's a queen and Edmund's a king. I guess Susan must be a queen, too, or it's really not fair," she mused, meandering into the living room. "Susan hadn't warned me I was coming to a household of actual royalty."

Peter felt his heart rate picking up; had she really figured it out? Surely not. No one in their right mind would figure out that he and his siblings had traveled to another world where they were the kings and queens of a magical land. He searched the carpet for what to say or how to explain.

"Oh don't look so embarrassed," Charlotte laughed. "I played games like that a bit with my siblings, too, though we were never kings or queens."

"I—oh, games, right," Peter quickly agreed, nodding his head. "What did you play?"

"Well, when I was really little we would . . . well, it's silly but you shouldn't laugh because you pretended to be a high king," she suddenly argued, turning a bit shy. "You're an adult now and you still call yourself a high king."

"You're right; I won't laugh. I promise."

"Well . . . when I was really little and we were still in Oklahoma . . . I mean, there wasn't much time to play, you know, but sometimes Mama would want us out of the house, so we would go out to the—okay, I lived on a farm," she confessed with a deep sigh. Peter laughed, which made her frown.

"No, I'm sorry, I'm not laughing that you lived on a farm. I'm laughing at what an ordeal it is for you to say that. Is that a bad thing, in America? To live on a farm?"

Charlotte seemed surprised by his reaction and stammered, "I . . . well, it . . . yes, it is a bad thing. I mean, it is to be one of the poor-- well to be from Okla—there's actually a horrible word that—Anyway, none of that matters, does it?"

"No, it doesn't. I don't care in the least if you were rich or poor or a farm girl or a movie star or any of the other lives you've apparently lead so far," he insisted, and his phrasing made her thoughtful. She certainly had led many lives already, and here she was just barely twenty! One would never listen to her talk now and know she had been born into a family of poor tenant farmers, that when she had first arrived in California her accent had been so thick she might as well have been speaking French to the locals. "All I care about is what games you played as a child."

"Right." She gave him a curious look, suddenly embarrassed that she had shared as much as she had. Of course he didn't care if she had grown up dirt poor, or had been an actress; it was irrelevant, really. She didn't know why she had even blurted it out like that. She blushed and nodded, "Right. Well Mama would want us out of the house, us younger ones, because me and Julian and Ashley were absolute terrors—I know you would never guess that of me."

"No, never," Peter assured her, rolling his eyes even as he said it.

"Well so we would go and pretend that the animals could talk, that the horses and cow and chickens, that everything could talk and play with us."

"That's not so silly," Peter mused, thinking of Narnia's talking beasts.

"It did make it awfully sad when everything started dying, though . . ." Her voice dropped as she said it, but she wasn't talking to Peter at all, instead looking down at her hands, her mind clearly in a different time. She shook her head to clear her mind and continued, "We would pretend we were slaves in a wicked kingdom and the animals were helping us plan our escape because they were trapped too, and our mean older siblings were our masters. I guess it was how we dealt with hardship, right? You see, there was this huge drought—Well, you don't want to bother with all that. Anyway, the game seems mostly silly now, but I don't know . . ."

"I don't think talking animals are silly at all," Peter assured her.

"Well what about your game? Did you have a particular story you played?"

"We . . . well," Peter waffled, not sure what he should say. Other than Professor Kirke, he and his siblings had never told anyone about Narnia. It wasn't something they had written out and signed an agreement for, but it was sort of understood that Narnia was theirs.

But surely Charlotte was now enough accepted by Susan, Edmund, and Lucy that they wouldn't be upset—and if she just thought it had been a game, there was no harm—and Peter couldn't help but notice that singing Christmas Carols had left her a bit morose. With what little she had just said about her family, and the fact that she was here instead of home for the holidays, he supposed she had every right to get a little blue, but so then what harm would be done in telling her a wonderful story to cheer her up? Perhaps he could skip the initial going to Narnia and just tell her stories about their reign.

"Oh, come on, please tell me. It is a very good story? I bet it's wonderful, and I could use a good story right now, now that you've got me thinking about my awful childhood."

He frowned, "I'm sorry; I didn't mean to stir up bad memories."

"No, it's not your fault. Only partially," she teased. "But it's all right. Christmas does that, you know? Makes you remember things you wish you could rather forget. Makes you realize how differently things turned out than you had expected . . ." He wondered if she was thinking about the ex-fiance Susan had mentioned and he felt bad for her. What he knew of Charlotte, she was so fun and friendly that it felt unreal someone would want to hurt her – though of course he didn't know the circumstances. For all he knew, she had been the one to call it off.

"Well, all right, now that you're getting _me_ all depressed," Peter relented after not much coaxing. He moved from the couch to the rug in front of the fire, and Charlotte slid down onto the rug beside him. "But you must promise not to laugh. Promise?"

"On my honor," she nodded, giving him a serious nod.

"Well you see, there is a land called Narnia where talking animals are quite normal, and there we're the kings and queens . . .


	6. Chapter 6

_Hey y'all, thanks so much for the reviews thus far. As you'll see, things are beginning to get pretty complicated, and I've got some exciting tricks up my sleeve in the next few chapters. __Please remember to review; it definitely helps me get new chapters written and posted sooner! Hope everyone's been having excellent holidays. :)_

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**Chapter Six**

"Peter, darling, I'm afraid I feel very ill this day," Lydia signed into Peter's neck the next morning. She had risen late but declined breakfast anyways when Mrs. Pevensie offered to reheat things. "It is this cold, I think."

"It can't be too much colder here than in Paris," he teased, wrapping his arms around her waist and looking out the window. Edmund was showing Charlie how he had set the telescope up to spy on their neighbors while Susan rolled her eyes, probably insisting that this was awfully inappropriate. Everything was awfully inappropriate to Susan, which made her friendship with Charlie that much more amusing, because _everything_ seemed appropriate to Charlotte. Perhaps it was being an American, or perhaps it was growing up in the poverty that Peter had managed to figure out had plagued her childhood. American events might not be his forte, but he did recall that though all of America had suffered during their recent economical depression, the farmers in states like Oklahoma had suffered the most. There were holes in his understanding, of course, and though he had pieced together that at least Charlotte wound up in California and there got discovered and put into the movies, he wasn't quite sure how she got there, nor how she eventually found herself in Paris, nor where the fiancé fit into the whole puzzle. Actually, everything surrounding this friend of Susan's seemed at once puzzling and exciting, and Peter felt like he himself was sitting in the cinema, watching a film starring her. Gradually, frame by frame, more of the story unraveled, and no doubt by the time the credits rolled around, he would have it all sorted out. He had never been one to leave any stones unturned in the pursuit of answers to whatever questions he came up with during his sleepless nights.

". . . children," he heard Lydia say, and that startled him out of watching his siblings and back to the girl clinging to his neck.

"Um . . . could you say that again?" he asked, hoping she wouldn't take offense that he hadn't been listening.

She giggled, "Oh, Peter, you think too much. I was saying that I think we should only bring the children to visit here during the summer. It's dreadful too cold for little ones, I think."

"Well I managed it just fine," he laughed. "And I'm a better man for it!"

"Well I don't want my sons to be better men for it; I want them to survive to adulthood." Peter didn't quite understand in what way he _hadn't_ survived to adulthood, but he let it slide as she sighed, "I do wish your mother had green tea. I believe it would make me feel much less ill."

"Does she not?"

"No, I have asked her already. Oh!" she suddenly gasped, "I hope she has not taken offense to it!" Edmund, Susan, and Charlotte were coming back inside, stomping the melting snow from their boots just outside the back door.

"I doubt she has. But I tell you what. Since you're a bit under the weather, why don't you go rest in bed for a bit and I'll run to the store and find you some green tea."

"Oh, Peter darling, that's why I love you. You are so kind to do such a thing," Lydia beamed. She kissed him squarely on the mouth before flouncing upstairs with a bit less than her usual energy, due to being under the weather. In her wake, he saw Charlie lift an eyebrow at him before turning away to laugh and unwind the scarf from around her throat. They had sat up half the night before, and one of the stories he had told had been of the Pevensies aiding Prince Caspian in reclaiming Narnia. He had mentioned that Susan had kissed Caspian moments before they left, and while Lucy and Ed had been disgusted, he himself had been somewhat envious because he was older and hadn't yet kissed anyone. Then he had felt a momentary embarrassment admitting that, but Charlie had laughed at him that he was far too romantic for a boy and probably belonged as an actual knight in Medieval Europe rather than here in 1948 England. For whatever reason, she never questioned the mixing of story with reality. Who had Susan kissed if Prince Caspian were simply a figment of the children's imagination?

As though to assure Peter of what she had been thinking, Charlie snickered, "I suppose by now you've outdone Susan, huh Peter?"

"Outdone Susan in what?" Susan intervened while Peter felt his neck flush at the audacious suggestion.

"Whispering sweet nothings into people's ears," Charlie answered, whispering this into Susan's neck to make her laugh and bat her scandalous friend away.

To hide his embarrassment, Peter announced to no one in particular, "Lydia is a bit under the weather so I'm headed to the store. I'll be back in a bit."

"Oh, might we run out, too, Su?" Charlie asked, turning to Susan expectantly.

"Sick of our house already?" Ed teased, edging past her to hang his things in the entry way. He clearly had no desire to go.

"Oh, no, it's not that! Only that I haven't seen anything outside of the yard yet, really. Please, Suzie?"

"How can I say no to someone who whispers _such_ sweet nothings into my ear?" Susan sighed, reknotting her scarf. "We'd best ask Lucy if she wants to go, too." Lucy had been drawing serenely in her room but of course did want to go, and moments later what Peter had assumed would be a quick solitary trip turned into a parade of him and the girls. Lucy was thrilled at the chance to go somewhere with Peter and _without_ Lydia, and quickly slipped her arm into her eldest brother's. Charlotte and Susan copied them and walked behind, giggling amongst themselves about something like two schoolgirls.

The tea shoppe Peter had been thinking of wasn't too far away, and the girls sniffed the various boxes of tea leaves while Peter asked the store owner to just pick out a good green tea for him; he sure knew nothing about green teas. While they talked, sudden laughter made both men turn to the girls, Susan and Lucy laughing as Charlotte began sneezing wildly, having sucked some sort of fine black tea straight up through her nostrils. Peter paid quickly and they left under the store owner's firm stare, Charlie still sneezing sporadically for several more minutes. Without anyone suggesting it, they continued to wander, stopping occasionally to gaze into a store window and admire a hat or a fabric or some oddity.

As they passed Victoria Park, Susan sighed, "It _is_ nice to see the gates back, isn't it?"

"They've been back for two years. Where have you been?" Peter snorted.

"Yes, I know, but felt like such a long time . . . I didn't feel like the war was really over until we got our gates back."

"Were they damaged in bombing?" Charlotte inquired, pausing to admire the park.

"No, they were used to make guns for a navy ship," Lucy answered. "It was very sad when the old ones went away, but the new ones are lovely, aren't they?"

"Yes, they are," Charlie agreed. After a moment of thought, she added, "It must have been so strange being in the middle of a war. Was it very?"

"What do you mean? I thought America was in the war too," Lucy returned.

"We were, but none of the fighting took place on American soil except for Pearl Harbor, which is in Hawaii and a long way from Oklahoma. London was bombed though, wasn't it?"

Peter answered this time, "A couple times. At one point, they evacuated all the children from London. If you didn't have relatives outside the city – which we don't – you got sent to strangers' houses, people who agreed to take in children."

"Were you four split up?"

"No, we were all together at Professor Kirke's. He's a very nice old gentleman who had a large estate out in the countryside. Oh, Peter, we haven't sent him a Christmas card, have we? And I do hope you're planning on inviting him to your graduation . . . you probably wouldn't be there without him, you know."

To Charlie, he quickly explained, "The exams were extremely difficult, you see, so I went and stayed with Professor Kirke for a summer to study . . . it was the summer Su went to America."

"Yes, but to New York," Charlie snorted. "That hardly counts as America, only seeing the one city. If I ever had any desire to go back, I would take you to California, maybe, or perhaps Massachu-- There's a stationary shop; you could buy a card in there." She seemed to dislike her sentence halfway through and interrupted herself, pointing to a shop across the street.

Inside smelled like the pages of a dusty old book. Shelves of handcrafted journals dominated a wall, while the opposite wall displayed cardstock and fancy stationary. Racks throughout the store presented postcards and specialized occasion cards. Not trusting Peter to select a good one, Susan enlisted Charlie to help her read through the racks for a Christmas card with a worthwhile drawing. Meanwhile, Peter and Lucy migrated to the back wall where the store was selling old magazines and photographs and even a bin of movie posters from films no longer in the cinema. Peter flipped disinterestedly through the old photographs, amused at some of the outdated clothing styles and envious of a few soldier portraits.

He heard Lucy gasp and then hiss, "Peter, come quickly."

"What is it, Lu?" he asked, setting the photographs he had been studying down and crossing to look over her shoulder where she had been digging through the poster bin. She motioned to one partially pulled out, a poster for a movie called _My Lady Harriet,_ a film Peter couldn't remember hearing about – but then he hadn't been to the cinema much since he began uni.

"What?" he repeated, but when Lucy insisted he _look_, he studied the poster more closely. Lucy giggled when he gasped.

"Is has to be her, doesn't it?" Lucy whispered, glancing over her shoulder to where Charlotte was still perusing cards with Susan.

"Maybe not . . . no, you're right, it must be her," Peter relented. It was unmistakable. Beneath the title, which was written in white in a fancy cursive script, was the undeniable image of Charlotte. Her back was facing out, but she was looking over her shoulder at the camera . . . it had to be her.

"We have to buy it," Lucy whispered. "How much is it? I have my allowance still."

"I wonder if there are any of her other—"

"Peter, Lucy, are you two almost finished?" Susan called across the store. Both jumped and Peter quickly answered that they were.

"What are we going to—"

"You go out and stall them outside. I'll ask the lady to hold it for me and come back this afternoon."

"Goody, perfect!" Lucy beamed, and Peter grinned to see how happy the plan made her. Whether the poster was actually Charlotte or not, or whether Charlotte even wanted it or not, it was good to see Lucy happy with him again. While she went to put into action her half, Peter left it at the desk, promising to come back and get it in a few hours.

The group wandered a bit longer before deciding it best to head home so Lydia could have her tea. Besides they were all getting hungry and though they had probably missed lunch, hopefully Mrs. Pevensie had set aside the meal for them.

Lydia was excited by the tea and felt well enough to join the rest of the house in the afternoon. This was well and good until Peter realized he couldn't very well take her with him to buy the poster. She knew he had purchased Charlie's train ticket, and at the time had made the comment that it was so nice of him but he had better be careful about buying things for young ladies or there would be rumors. She had said it lightly enough, but he wasn't so dense not to recognize the warning in her voice as to how a proper sweetheart of hers should behave towards other young women. Perhaps she would understand the novelty of buying the poster, but perhaps she wouldn't, and he certainly didn't want to upset her this close to Christmas.

He fretted all afternoon about how to kindly keep her home, which she noticed and pressed, "Peter darling, are you anxious about something?"

"Ah . . . I . . ."

"Oh," she mused, her pink lips suddenly screwing into a meaningful smile. "Is it something I can't know about?"

"Well . . . yes. . ."

She gasped and her eyes glittered as she pressed cautiously, "Might you need to run an errand and not know how to ask me to stay behind?"

"As a matter of fact, yes," he grinned. Really the girl was fantastic. No wonder he was so in love with her. "That's exactly it."

"Say no more. I will be happy here and you may go and get whatever it is you need to get." She gave him a knowing smile then scurried away as though afraid to delay him any longer.

_Well that was easy enough_, he mused to himself as he slipped on his coat and departed quietly from the house. Lucy made some comment that she had pointed out a gift she wanted in a window and perhaps he was going to get that, and no one questioned it.

The lady at the shop waved as he entered again, and assured him cheerfully, "I have your poster here still." She was young, probably recently finished with school and working in her father's store.

"Splendid, thanks." She clearly had something further to say, though. "Yes?"

"I . . . I'm sorry, perhaps I'm out of line. But I looked at the poster and . . . you were in here earlier with three young ladies, and one of them looked remarkably like . . . were you with Charlotte Auburn?"

Well there was certainly no mistaking it now. It absolutely must be Charlie on the poster, and furthermore the fact that this woman knew her name must mean she was a bit more of a star than she had thus far let on.

Peter looked at the woman suspiciously and answered slowly, "If I say yes, does that mean something?"

"I should think so!" the woman gasped.

"Is she very famous then?"

"Well she was going to be," the woman sighed. "Very promising young actress . . . and to think, she's here in London! Oh my, I simply can't believe it . . ."

"She's a friend of my sister's, you see, in Paris, and my sister's brought her home for Christmas. Our family doesn't exactly go to the cinema much, though, you see, so we don't exactly—we aren't exactly up to date on the stars, I suppose."

The woman seemed to understand the question and grinned, "Paris! Well, there were rumors that was where she had gone. Granted, I don't know how many of the rumors are true . . . but they say she was just a poor farm girl, starving to death even! She was discovered singing in a saloon. Imagine just being discovered like that. So they put her in the films and she was doing so well. Started with a minor part, and then had a very strong supporting role in _In Winter_ – oh, she was splendid, and so innocent! And then she did . . . which came next? I suppose _Chickee_ came next, or perhaps _Piano_ _Gal_, which was a musical. She sang in _Chickee_, too, though. She really can sing, if you haven't heard her yet," the woman explained. She seemed genuinely excited by this all. "She was the lead female in both of those and then she did this film, a film noir they call it, _My Lady Harriet_. Femme fatale, I should say. She's stunningly gorgeous in it. Breathtaking, I should say. And then the rumors . . . well." She ended with a shrug, turning quickly away.

"What about the rumors?" Peter pressed curiously.

She insisted, "Well I don't know whether they're true or not. They being rumors and all."

"What were the rumors?"

"Well," she whispered, leaning in as though afraid someone might hear them. The store was empty. "The rumor is that her director fell in love with her and left his wife and four kids, and the two of them fled the scandal to Paris. I heard they were together for quite some time, though, before he left his wife, and they didn't exactly keep it secret from the wife, if you know what I mean. Apparently he about bankrupted himself buying her gifts, and him with a family to take care of! He used his family's last money, they say, to buy their passage to Paris . . . I suppose the world is different in Hollywood and she probably could have kept acting, even with such scandal. I don't know. But she hasn't been seen or heard from since . . . and then you said she lives in Paris now . . . is she married, do you know?"

Peter felt dirty. He didn't know whether the rumors were true or not, but regardless, he felt sick even hearing them. So either Charlotte was a –well, he wouldn't say it—or else she was the victim of horrible slander. He didn't know what the truth was, but he didn't feel right answering the question, either. What if he said something to instigate further rumors?

"No, she isn't. She lives with my sister," he answered quickly, suddenly wanting to be gone.

"Oh. I wonder . . . but she's in London! And I didn't even ask her autograph! Might you . . . you see, I've seen all her films. I have a copy of the poster for _Piano Gal,_ too. If I throw it in, might you drop an autograph by? I would appreciate it so much."

Peter would agree to almost anything at this point, and nodded. He handed over the money, took the two posters she had wrapped in brown paper with a board to keep them in good condition, and hurried home. Lydia and Charlotte had been talking in the entry way about something secret, but when the door flew open Lydia yipped and dragged Charlie into the living room with everyone else, giggling about Peter's secret errand. This suited him just fine; he was suddenly in a terrible mood. He hurried up to his room, grateful Ed wasn't there, and locked the door behind him to rip off the paper from the posters and lay them on the ground to look down at.

_Piano Gal_ looked to be a patriotic movie. The words were made to look like the American flag, and took up nearly the entire poster. Standing in the bottom right corner was a handsome young man in a navy uniform, and perched daintily on the "o" in the word 'piano' was Charlie, donning a short red, white, and blue dress and a white sailors cap, her long legs crossed as she laughed at the camera, her hair falling in long curls around her shoulders.

The poster for _My Lady Harriet_, which Peter had only glimpsed at earlier, showed a Charlotte that seemed to have matured a lot in a short time. Whereas in the first poster she was sexy in a young, playful way – it was a pin-up girl photo, Peter _had_ to call it sexy, even if the mere word made him flush, much less in conjunction with Charlie—the second poster showed a very confident sexuality. Her hair was pinned up in curls tight against her head, or perhaps it was cut shorter. Her back was to the camera but she glanced over her shoulder, one hand propped on her waist and the other stretched out across the open lid of a grand piano. The picture was black and white, and a grey light behind her illuminated every curve laid bare by the long gown that hugged her figure and plunged low, leaving her back almost entirely exposed. He realized what he had recognized so quickly in the picture. Her expression, one eye quirked in a playful, knowing way. It stood out in his memory: the look she had given him when she'd caught him with the cookies, for one example. It was memorable for many reasons, not the least of which because it seemed so at odds with her normally playful, sweet demeanor. Now, looking at the poster, he could put his finger on it directly. Typically she was the playful sexy Piano Gal, but every once in a while the mature, over-sexualized Harriet peeked out.

Peter turned away from the images and ran his fingers through his hair. He regretted buying the posters. This was strange and wrong to be seeing this—he felt like he was peering into a portion of Charlotte's life she had been trying to keep secret. After all, she had yet to answer any of Lucy's questions; she always brushed them off and changed the subject.

But might that not be simply to cover up the scandal? Surely she didn't want that following her everywhere, and apparently scandal was linked with her name. If Lucy asked too many questions, perhaps the truth would come out and then . . .

But no, Peter argued with himself. He knew Charlie. Or he at least knew her a bit, and Susan certainly knew her. Susan of _all_ people wouldn't invite a scandal home for Christmas. The rumors had to be false. Charlotte simply had residual habits of a character she had played in a film left over, expressions she had put on for the camera that had sunk into her habit. Surely she was as good and innocent and sweet as she seemed.

Of course, Susan had mentioned to him some of the trouble Charlie was sinking into in Paris. The whole reason Susan wanted to bring her home was because her partying was beginning to spiral out of control, and Susan was scared of the world Charlie had easily been invited into. Her letters were vague on the subject, but Peter could only imagine what she meant. Clubs, men, alcohol, and who knew what other darker things.

He realized his imagination was probably running away with him, but he couldn't stop himself, like a train that had gathered momentum and couldn't be turned away now. Susan had seemed to think it was all a result of the break up with the fiancé and the deaths of some members of Charlotte's family, but what if it was simply a continuation of the lifestyle Charlotte had begun in California? If she was a scandal there, why would she bother changing her ways in Paris? Perhaps only long enough to find a new roommate after her engagement ended . . .

"No, Peter, no. That's not it and you know it," he stomped his foot to emphasize what he spoke out loud in the silence of the room. He glanced at the posters one last time before rewrapping them and shoving them beneath his bed, though not before glancing at the directors' names.

Downstairs, the living room was cozy and happy. Everyone was laughing at some anecdote Charlie was telling about one of her brothers hanging all her cloth dolls from the rafters of the barn while she was at school. Peter slid onto the couch beside Lydia, who wound her fingers through his. Listening to Charlie, watching her interact with his family, he knew for certain the rumors were wrong. She wasn't a husband stealer. She certainly wasn't a kept woman. Still the thought nagged at him until finally, just before bed, he managed to catch a moment alone with Susan.

Out of curiosity and simply for a laugh at his own foolishness, Peter asked her quietly, "Su, you don't happen to know the name of – I know I shouldn't be asking it, but you don't happen to know the name of Charlotte's ex-fiance, do you?"

"You're right, you shouldn't ask because it's no business of yours, Peter," she scolded pointedly. "But if you must know, she called him Jack. That's all I know, though." Peter felt his shoulders sag with relief. Neither of the directors had been named Jack. "Why do you ask?"

"Oh, no reason," he shrugged. "Just curious if there was a particular name I should avoid in conversation."

After the upset of the day, Peter didn't much feel like sitting up all night talking to Charlotte as he had the past couple of nights, but seeing the glow from downstairs and her figure hunched over a book by the hearth, he sighed and joined her. He might as well; he wouldn't be asleep for a few hours. Most of his habits gathered in Narnia were positive but a couple he wished he could rid himself of, such as the insomnia.

She grinned to see him and asked, "So, are we going back to Narnia tonight?" Such a simple question erased all the doubts and anxieties of the afternoon, and Peter was entirely ashamed of himself for having believed the rumors for even a second. This wasn't Charlotte Auburn anymore, and certainly not the Charlotte Auburn of rumor. This was Charlie, Su's best friend, an American art student in Paris who pretended she was a slave with talking animals as a child.

"Oh, you don't want to hear more stories of that old place," he laughed with a shake of his head.

"No, I do! I really do!" she insisted. "I dreamed of it last night."

"Did you?"

"I really did. I dreamed I was standing on a cliff overlooking the sea, wearing the most beautiful pale yellow dress, and Susan and Lucy were there, and we all had flowers in our hair. And that lion was there too, Aslan."

"What, did you leave me and Ed out?"

"I'm afraid I did," she laughed. "You didn't miss much, though. We just all stood there being happy, and I woke this morning with just the lightest feeling in my heart, as though everything in the world was going to work out right. It was a lovely feeling. Perhaps the best feeling I've ever had."

"Well then I _suppose_ we should go back to Narnia . . ." and so he told her more stories, still not mentioning their initial arrival to Narnia. He told her the history, what Professor Kirke had told them about Narnia's creation, and she listened with such a rapt, innocent interest that when at last the clock struck two and they agreed they had better go to bed or they would never get up the next day, he felt genuinely saddened to be leaving Narnia. Telling her the stories was almost as good as being there.

"Oh, by the way," Charlotte added with one foot on the bottom stair. "I don't know what your secret errand was, but I feel like I should warn you that Lydia's _convinced_ you're going to propose to her on Christmas, and that you went to find a ring. If that's not what it was, I'd hate to be in your shoes . . ." She seemed to be teasing him, like she knew that his errand had not been for Lydia, but there didn't seem to be any expectation at all in her face that it had been for her. She bounded up the stairs before he had a chance to think of a response.

Peter was suddenly too tired to put much thought into it, though. He would think about Charlotte's warning in the morning; for now, he just wanted to crawl into bed after a long day and sleep. After all, he knew Lydia expected him to propose soon; they had talked about marriage enough times by now that her expectation wasn't really that surprising. Perhaps he _should_ propose to her on Christmas. Charlie made it sound like Lydia was excited by the idea, and it would save him the stress of having to think of something romantic enough to fit Lydia's notions of what the perfect marriage proposal would be. Charlotte had said he was too romantic for a boy, but clearly she hadn't spent enough time with Lydia to see what he was up against.

He changed and was just about to slip into bed when movement in the street outside his window caught his eye. Talking about Narnia gave him the slight start that perhaps it was Aslan, but no. Aslan didn't physically exist in England, only in his heart. He sighed and leaned his forehead against the cool glass to smile at the moonlit world of snow outside when a horrible realization struck his heart.

Quickly but quietly so as not to wake Ed, Peter pulled the posters out and read the names listed again. The director of _My Lady Harriet_ was named Jonathan Daws.

_She called him Jack_, Susan had answered.


	7. Chapter 7

_AN: Wrote this quickly after spending three days at the airport so I'm exhausted, but I wanted to get an update posted soon. Some of you have started to get nervous about Peter and Lydia and where exactly Charlotte fits in . . . all I can say is, the course of true love never did run smooth. The last sentence should begin to set your hearts at ease . . . or actually maybe it'll just make you more concerned, haha._

_Anyways, classes and job hunting start for me tomorrow, so updates on all my stories will probably slow a bit for the next week or two, and I'll certainly be spending my time writing whichever stories it seems people want the most, so reviewreviewreview if you want to see this updated. :)_

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**Chapter Seven**

"Here, Lu, try . . . this," Charlie encouraged, tilting the beret to the side and grinning at the round face beneath it.

"A chignon," Lydia suggested, which Charlotte liked the sound of. She spun Lucy around and quickly pulled her hair into a loose bun at the nape of her neck, slightly to the opposite side. Lucy beamed at herself in the mirror and traced the brim of the hat Charlie was letting her borrow with her fingers.

"Look at you, little French girl," Susan teased, glancing over as she pulled her sweater on. Not that she had anything against Lydia, but she was beginning to like her more thanks to moments like these. That morning, she had been cheerful and friendly while the rest of the Pevensies struggled to paste on faces for church, and she had called the bakesale "absolutely delightful," helping Mrs. Pevensie man the table with Lucy while Peter, Susan, and Edmund showed Charlotte around the old church. It was probably even better that Lucy had been the one to stay behind, because Lucy seemed to be the one that disliked her the most. But if Susan's guess as to Peter's errand was correct, they had all better learn to love her quickly, because sooner rather than later she would be part of the family, it seemed.

Charlotte and Lydia were trying to teach Lucy to say, "Mon nom est Lucy. Je suis belle." She kept mixing the syllables up, though, the foreign words falling awkwardly from her mouth. Susan smiled at Charlotte, glad to see that the minor catastrophe of the afternoon hadn't affected her in the long run. Honestly, what had Peter been thinking? The more Susan was liking Lydia, the less she was liking her own brother.

Edmund had been explaining the architecture to Charlotte, something neither Susan nor Peter cared about in the least. Charlie seemed generally interested, staring up at the ceiling of the knave or at the pretty stained glass windows as Edmund rattled off designs and replacement details. About the things he was interested in, such as architecture, Edmund knew a lot, and Charlie seemed a willing ear.

Peter and Susan had wandered up towards the pulpit, and had only just reached the first pew when Peter suddenly asked, "Susan, what do you know about Charlotte's old life?"

"What old life?"

"You know, her life before you met her in Paris. I mean, what happened with her fiancé? What was her life like in Hollywood? Where has her family been in all—"

"Peter!" Susan had gasped, giving him a stern glare. "What business is it of yours?"

Clenching his jaw defensively, Peter had retorted, "Seeing as she's in our house, I would say it is some of my business."

"You're asking me questions about Charlie's private life. That's crossing the line. I'm not going to stand here and fill you in on the details—"

"So you know the details? Of her life I mean?" he pressed, and looked somewhat relieved by this.

She faltered, "Some of them. Enough. I don't understand what your point is."

"I've heard some things --"

"What sort of things?"

"Bad things, about Charlotte. Perhaps it's just rumors, but some of the things . . . some things are fitting together to make it seem like maybe the rumors are right. You said her fiance's name was Jack, and then the director's name was Jonathan . . ."

"Is there something you need to ask me, Peter?" Charlotte had suddenly asked, her and Edmund having approached without either of them noticing. The look on her face broke Susan's heart. She looked devastated. Her eyes were soft in her flushed face, the corners of her pink lips downturned as she glanced slowly between the siblings. Beside her, Ed looked simply confused and perhaps slightly annoyed with Peter.

Fortunately, Peter had the good sense to shut up. He'd stammered out that no, there wasn't anything he needed to ask her, shoved his hands into his pockets, and quickly walked away to find Lydia. Susan had quickly enveloped Charlie in a hug, despite her usual discomfort with physical affection in general. That was one of the many changes Charlotte had brought about in her; Susan had an easier time hugging without feeling uncomfortable, and she couldn't help but feel it was improving her relationships with Lucy and her mum.

"Why was he asking that?" Charlotte had asked, her voice small in the vastness of the empty church. "What does my fiancé matter to him? Why would he ask that?"

Ed had patted Charlotte's arm in a display of compassion that made Susan proud for her younger brother as he tried to comfort her, "Don't worry about him, Charlie. He's a know-it-all and doesn't know when to stop. It doesn't matter."

Susan had seen her sad before – actually, she had seen her devastated when news of the death of her her father had come so shortly after the death of her brother. Charlotte had been crippled with grief. This sadness was different; she looked hurt, offended, betrayed. Susan wanted to wring Peter's neck, but settled for shooting him death glares for the rest of the afternoon. He wisely kept his distance, hovering over Lydia's shoulder so that it looked like he was using her for a shield. By the time they had all rejoined, Charlotte had wiped the frown off her face, and so Lydia and Lucy remained blissfully unaware of the monster Peter had been to their guest.

Now, watching Charlotte pin her own hat on, Susan reflected on what she knew in the hopes of figuring how why Peter _would_ care to ask such invasive questions. Edmund was right that Peter liked to know everything, but never before had he so flagrantly disregarded common decency. Susan had already told him it was none of his business, and still he had pushed it!

Charlotte was born and raised in Oklahoma. Because of the American Depression, most of her family had moved to California, where Charlie sang in a saloon until some talent agent from Hollywood discovered her and began putting her in films. She wound up falling in love with Jack –perhaps he was the director, or another actor, or no one at all; Susan had never thought it mattered—and together they moved to Paris where Charlie could pursue her art degree. She wasn't clear whether they had arrived in Paris before or after Charlie decided she wanted to try art, but it really didn't matter. Charlotte had discovered Jack was with other women while she was in class; it had come to a head when he had left her at a nightclub to go home with another woman and no money for a cab. She had called the engagement off and moved into the apartment that had then burned down, using money her brother had sent her from home. Apparently, Jack had been using Charlotte's money to entertain the other women, leaving her utterly broke.

All of this Charlie had told Susan, frequently after one too many drinks. It didn't seem to be something she wished to talk about at all, and only the tongue-loosening effect of alcohol had gotten her to share even these details. What was so mysterious about any of it? Why was Peter being a nuisance? First and foremost, there was the question of why he cared about Charlotte's past in the first place, but furthermore, what made him think he had the right to press Susan for information? He had less right to ask Charlie questions than Lucy or Edmund did, and even Lucy seemed to have picked up on the fact that Charlotte didn't want to talk about her Hollywood days. From what Susan had gathered, it was an unending stream of shallow people using each other for glamour and money. Charlie had gladly turned her back on it, and especially now that she had been saved from the mixture of Paris and depression, was the sweet and friendly girl offering her arm to Susan as they began the walk to church for the Christmas concert.

Honestly, she really was going to throttle Peter.

"Susan, you've been scowling all afternoon," Charlie whispered, poking Susan in the cheek with a gloved finger. "Lighten up – we're going to a Christmas concert."

"I'm sorry."

"You're still angry with Peter?"

"Yes. He has no right to—"

Charlotte shrugged, "I'm used to it. You're the first person I've met who _hasn't_ tried to dredge up awful memories. Well, Ed doesn't seem to care much, either."

"No, Ed's just thrilled you'll listen to his architecture babble," Susan laughed. She shook her head, "But still. That doesn't excuse Peter. You may have had to deal with it before, but you shouldn't have nosy people prying into your life in our household. I don't know why he even thinks he has the right to question—"

"I stopped trying to figure out people's motives long ago," Charlotte sighed. "But please don't let this ruin Christmas. If Peter wants to ask me something, he can. Otherwise, let's forget it happened and enjoy the music." Susan could see Charlie _hadn't_ forgotten it; her eyes had taken on the betrayed look again, but she wasn't going to push it when her friend was being so charitable and forgiving. It only made her even angrier at her brother for being so rude to such a wonderful girl.

Charlotte slipped her hand into Susan's as they reached the church and gave it a squeeze; really, Charlotte was as physically affection as Susan was _not_. The wonder on her face was captivating as she gazed up at the decorated church in the dark of night. The decorations hadn't changed much since the afternoon, except that now candles flickered in all the stained glass windows and along the far wall of the church. Garlands draped along the staircase in the front, and bright red bows had been stuck to the ends of the pews, and everyone was grinning and chatting as proud parents and grandparents and community members slid into their seats. The Pevensies, Charlie, and Lydia were greeted by many of the parents of Mrs. Pevensie's students, and Susan noted proudly that everyone seem as captivated by Charlotte as she was by the Christmas decorations. Her smile was contagious, much more so than Lydia's, and that made Susan competitively proud.

Even Peter grinned affectionately at Charlie as she gasped, "My, you and I could sit in that wreath, Lucy!" Good; perhaps that meant Peter was getting past his rudeness and would treat Charlotte with the respect she deserved. Charlotte glanced away from the wreath, saw Peter's smile, and turned quickly away. Susan didn't notice this, but Lucy did, and it made the youngest Pevensie curious.

Charlie's grin continued, or perhaps intensified, once they had slid into a pew near the front and the singers began. She sat between Mrs. Pevensie and Susan and listened politely as Mrs. Pevensie pointed out her students and told inane anecdotes about them. Clearly she loved her work, and though really Charlie wasn't interested, she enjoyed being talked to, and enjoyed the pride evident on Mrs. Pevensie's face.

Once upon a time, she had sung in Christmas concerts, too. Charlie wondered if it was a story that Lucy would enjoy hearing, but there wasn't really a story. Just as a little girl, she had frequently been dressed in a white sheet with gauzy wings and a wooden halo with all the other farm kids, and the families had come from homesteads for miles around to watch dirty little children put together a haphazard production. They hadn't sounded good or looked good, but it was one of the few times everyone could stop thinking about the drought and the economy and the winds and sun and the dropping price of cotton. Really, it was sort of depressing to think about . . .

The choir concert held Charlotte entranced, and she was genuinely disappointed when the last song was sung, the last prayer recited, and everyone told to go safely into the night.

"Oh, that was charming," Lydia grinned, slipping her arm into Peter's. "So delightful, and so . . . _English_." Lucy sent Charlotte a confused stare but Charlie didn't really see what was so English about a Christmas choir concert.

They stopped at the doors of the church to tighten coats and scarves for the walk home – even with the cold, they were close enough to church that Mr. Pevensie insisted they walk, and Charlotte liked it, liked the way a few snowflakes managed to sneak out of the clouds and tumble into her outstretched hand. Mr. Pevensie was explaining a Christmas pageant from his childhood ("what year was that again, Dad?" Edmund snickered), and they had just begun to take a few steps towards home when someone inside suddenly called out,

"Charlotte!"

Her name wasn't uncommon, but still Charlotte hesitated and frowned; Susan remembered her saying how much she disliked being recognized from the movies, though at least it happened less in Europe than in America.

She began walking again, but the male voice called again, "Charlotte, wait! I know you hear me!"

With a sigh, Charlotte turned to make absolute sure the voice wasn't aimed at her, then suddenly gasped, "Lesley Stevens!" Suddenly Susan was alone on the sidewalk as Charlotte launched herself forward and threw her arms around the neck of the man. He spun her around in the air once before setting her carefully back down.

This time Susan gaped alongside Lucy, though, because while Charlotte's film career was a mystery to them, they _certainly_ knew who Lesley Stevens was. A Scottish actor, he'd made a handful of movies that had all gone over very well in England. In fact, Susan had taken Lucy to see one in the cinema shortly before leaving for Paris, as a sort of goodbye outing for the two of them.

Lucy suddenly sighed, "I think I'm in love . . ." which made Susan laugh but not pull her eyes away.

In person, Lesley was even more beautiful than the camera gave him credit for. Dark eyes, thick dark hair, sharp cheekbones, and a grin that seemed to melt the snow around where he and Charlotte stood, still holding hands and quickly figuring out just how they happened to run into each other. Wasn't he supposed to be filming in California? No, he had met up with his parents in London where his sister lived with her husband because she was going to have a baby soon, the first grandchild. Wasn't she supposed to be in Paris?

"Oh, no!" Charlie grinned, suddenly remembering her manners. "I came to spend the holidays with my dearest friend Susan and her family." She tugged him over and apologized, "I'm so sorry, I was too excited to remember . . . this is Lesley Stevens, a good old friend. Lesley, this is Mr. and Mrs. Pevensie and that's Lucy, Susan, Edmund, and Peter, and Peter's sweetheart Lydia." Lydia, clearly as smitten as Lucy and Susan, had the grace to blush and loop her arm back through Peter's. Mr. Pevensie shook Lesley's hand, and then Peter decided he needed to do the same, giving Lesley's hand a firm jolt. Edmund uncomfortably accepted the hand Lesley held out to him, not seeing what the big deal was, while the girls just blushed and smiled.

"It's a pleasure to meet you all," he insisted, his accent dancing around their ears. "I'm glad to hear Charlotte has made such good friends in my absence. Someone needed to keep her smiling and honestly, Lottie, you look lovely. Even lovelier than I remembered." _Lottie_. She had always been Charlotte or Charlie to the Pevensies, and so to hear her called "Lottie" by this famous Scottish actor was beyond strange.

She beamed and blushed at his praise, then insisted, "Oh, I don't want to keep everyone standing in the snow, but it's so good to see you—"

"Yes, please, you really must come to dinner with my parents and I sometime soon, if you don't mind letting her go for just a short time," he suddenly turned on Susan.

She, of course, had no defense against the assault of such a warm smile and could only stammer, "Oh! Of course! No, that would be fine, I'm sure she – that's very kind of you."

He turned his attention back to Charlotte, "I'm staying at the Savoy. Ring me and I'll clear my schedule for whatever is best for you. Mum and Dad will be so excited to meet you." He gave her another kiss on the cheek, nodded to the Pevensies, and then bustled back into the church.

"I didn't know you knew Lesley Stevens!" Susan gasped after a moment of stunned silence.

Charlotte was the first to begin walking again, reclaiming Susan's arm as she explained, "Yes, he was my first friend when I started acting. He was the lead in the first film I made. I only had a small part, but he was very kind and helpful. I really had missed him terribly . . . it's a Christmas miracle that we've run into each other again!"

Lucy, still in an adolescent swoon, sighed, "Is he too old for me, Charlie?" Charlotte laughed and took Lucy's hand as well, all the sadness gone from her eyes as they stomped home through the snow.

Peter waited an hour by the fire that night before, exhausted by events of the day, he gave up and went to bed.


	8. Chapter 8

_AN: Geez, I feel like all I write anymore is romantically-confused adolescent male angst, haha. The reason updates have slowed on this is because of school and because I have been focusing a LOT on my Twilight fic. But of course this story is still dear to my heart so I'm plugging away. I realize this chapter is sort of boring? I don't know if that's the right word. It's sort of transitional, but as you'll see, it's muy importante. So much is starting to go on, and to go wrong, and to go crazy. Anyways . . . guess that's all. Enjoy!_

* * *

**Chapter Eight**

Tuesday afternoon found the girls again huddled in Susan's room, this time because the lighting was better and Lydia demanded the this if she was going to do Charlotte's make up properly. Charlotte had rung Lesley at the Savoy on Monday, and he had set the dinner date for Tuesday if that wasn't too soon for her, because he had a few friends he wished to "show her off to."

"Right, that's speaking proper," Peter had snarked, rolling his eyes when Charlotte quoted the conversation to Susan.

Fortunately, only Lucy heard, and asked gently, "What do you mean, Peter?"

"If any boy ever says he wants to 'show you off to his friends,' you tell me, Lu, and I'll teach him a thing about the proper way to treat a lady." Personally, Lucy didn't see what the big deal was, but then Peter had been in an awful mood since Sunday afternoon. She wasn't sure why, but it was bothersome, and so she avoided him in general.

Peter's mood had not improved when Lydia asked to postpone their cinema date until the next day so that she might help Charlotte get ready for her evening out.

"Anyway, who goes to the cinema on a Tuesday afternoon?" she had pressed when Peter tried to change her mind. The whole _point_ of the cinema date, if he was honest, was so that he wouldn't have to be around for the preparations. If Charlotte was going to go flouncing off with some bloke that wanted to "show her off," he sure didn't want to be around for the preparations.

"Yes, well who goes on a dinner date on a Tuesday evening?" he'd retorted, which only made Lydia giggle and press her lips lightly to his. He was so cute when he was grumpy. She patronized him and it only made things worse.

"I think it is sweet," she mused. "He could not wait until the weekend to see her, I do not doubt. Imagine if the two of them became sweethearts. Hollywood would rejoice, do you think? They will be England's Fred and Ginger!"

Lydia's thoughts seemed to be shared by Susan and Lucy, and Peter tried to block their squeals of laughter out as he passed the closed door once. Twice. Again and again until finally he couldn't stand it anymore and knocked.

"Yes? This is a girl's dressing room," Lucy explained, only cracking the door, one wide eye peering up at her brother.

"Oh, he can come in," Charlotte laughed from behind. "We're finished anyways and I should be leaving if I don't plan on standing Lesley up."

"And of course you do not," Lydia giggled as Lucy sighed and stepped back, opening the door fully. The room was a mess –make up, brushes, curlers, and clothing strewn about. Preparing for evenings out was what Lydia did best, and Charlotte had been so kind to her that she couldn't help but make a big fuss, even though Charlotte had blushed and stammered that it wasn't _that_ big of a deal. But who was to say? Lesley Stevens was a very good-looking man – a very _single_ good-looking man.

"You are stunning, Charlie," Susan beamed, holding out a hand to help her friend up. She sent Peter a pointed look as he stood in the doorway and pressed, "Wouldn't you say so, Peter?"

Embarrassingly, the smirk on Charlotte's red lips was the last thing Peter took notice of as she stood awkwardly before him, held in place by Susan and awaiting his appraisal. The navy dress hugged every curve, the faux-wrap skirt accentuating her narrow waist and wide hips. It was the return of the hour-glass figure that had been leaning against the piano in a movie poster hidden beneath Peter's bed. Dark blue sequins lined the narrow shoulder straps and sweetheart neckline, and cut diagonally across the bodice, disappearing at the waistline where the fitted ruffles of the skirt clung lightly to her curves until stopping just above her silver heels. A simple chain ran over the bumps of her collarbone, dangling a small metal heart in the center of her chest. It was Susan's necklace, Peter recognized, but seemed made to match the silver heart studs in Charlotte's ears, partially hidden by the long waves Lydia was still combing through with her fingers, perfecting what was already perfection. The make up was a bit more than Charlotte usually wore, her warm red lips second in attention only to the blue eyes that seemed wider and rounder and more ready to pop from her face than ever before.

Three things happened simultaneously. Lucy elbowed Peter in the ribs, Lydia stepped back to clap with glee, and Peter snapped at Charlotte, "You're going to freeze."

"Well I'll be wearing a coat, silly," Charlotte snickered, also pulling up a gauzy white shrug from the bed. Peter recognized it as Lydia's. He continued to gape at Charlotte Auburn, the elegant and beautiful silver screen siren that had stared up at him from the movie posters, as she slid past him now. It was like she had dressed up and suddenly gone were the giggles and playful teasing and any pretense at all of including herself a member of the peasant class. She was kidding herself if she thought she could make a life for herself as some poor art student in Paris, rooming with Susan. She belonged in the spotlight. Lydia was beautiful, sure, but she could only long for that ineffable quality that now radiated from Charlotte's silhouette, that ability to captivate and dazzle with a simple warm smile. Lydia was a beautiful doll on display in the center of the room. Charlotte was the chandelier above her, casting light down on everyone in the room simply by existing.

Peter hadn't even realized he had followed the girls downstairs, all trailing Charlotte like stars following the moon across the sky. That was exactly what this felt like. Edmund appeared from his room, and Mrs. Pevensie was waiting at the bottom of the stairs to kiss Charlotte's forehead and tell her to enjoy herself. Susan helped her slip her coat on, and her gloves, and her scarf, and a white beret.

Suddenly realizing she was about to leave and all he had done was nag her like a mother, Peter added quickly, "Be careful, Charlotte." No, that wasn't what he had meant to say at all.

"I will," she returned off-handedly, apparently not reading anything at all into his comment.

"And if . . . I mean, if anything happens and you—if you need to leave, or _want_ to leave, or anything—just call and I'll come—me and Ed will come pick you up."

Peter sounded like a damn fool. Fortunately, no one except perhaps Charlotte herself thought anything about it. She looked momentarily sad, but then Lydia cooed about what a good man Peter was, and Lucy all but shoved Charlotte out the door.

"Oh, she will have so much fun!" Lydia grinned, watching as Charlotte ducked into the cab waiting for her at the curb that Lesley had sent over. And that was exactly what Peter was afraid of.

Less than an hour later, Lucy threw herself onto the couch and sighed, "I wish she hadn't gone. It's awful dull without her here."

"It _is_ very easy to get used to having that girl around," Mrs. Pevensie agreed, only glancing up from the papers she was pouring through. She loved grading essays, insisting it was her chance to 'really get into the heads of her students.'

Peter said nothing. He had given up talking. He didn't know what to say anymore. He either stumbled over words like an idiot or said the wrong thing and got everyone all upset. He couldn't figure out what was going through his head, but for now, he appreciated the simplicity of Lydia more he ever had before. Just after Charlotte left, she asked him to go for a walk, and he swelled with pride at the gazes cast at his sweetheart. She was beautiful, all right. Even now, as she sat on the floor at his feet, her fair face resting against his knee as she read through some glossy, the firelight casting rainbows in her blond hair, she looked like a fair angel lounging beside him. He ran his fingers absently through one of her curls and she glanced lovingly up at him, her brown eyes round and warm as her pink lips mouthed, 'Je t'aime.' At least he assumed. It was the only thing he knew in French, and so the only thing she would logically whisper to him in the language. He loved the way the words rolled through her pearly teeth, the elegance with which she carried herself, the tinkling giggle she rewarded the most inane 'English things' with. He loved everything about her. Maybe he should go find a ring right this very second and propose to her early. Insist he couldn't wait until Christmas for her to agree. He loved her completely and entirely.

But if that were true, why was he having to focus so hard to keep thoughts of that silly American chit at bay? Because were his mind allowed to wander where it wanted, engagement rings and French words were the last stop on its journey. He wanted to hear Charlie laugh at something he said – she was still hurt by how he had behaved Sunday, and they hadn't spoken since then, and he missed it. He wanted to see the firelight illuminating her enraptured smile as he told her tales of Narnia, the flickering light setting her hair aflame. He wanted to tell her it was all real and see how she reacted. He wanted, right this very second, to be sitting at the table with her and that Lesley bloke and his friends, making absolute sure no eyes or hands wandered where they weren't welcome.

But who's to say their advances wouldn't be welcome? Charlotte had seemed excited about the dinner. She didn't have a sweetheart, and probably could appreciate a companion to help her get over her past heartbreak. She had _flung_ herself at him on the sidewalk. Even Lydia had never _flung_ herself at Peter; she typically deemed such behavior as inappropriate.

But so were these thoughts! Peter was practically engaged. He should not be thinking of _anyone_ else in any way that could at all be construed as romantically, particularly not the possibly scandalous best friend of his younger sister who at this very moment was most likely twirling around some hotel bar in the arms of some over-hyped actor. Peter tried to convince himself it was simply the high king in him, concerned for one of his subjects in a situation he couldn't control. And Charlotte was a friend, a sort of member of their family, and it was understood he would feel protective of her for his sisters' sake. No doubt Edmund was having the exact same thoughts.

But no, he looked completely absorbed in the ship in a bottle he was working at. It was a Christmas present for Charlotte, though. That had to count for something. She had mentioned to Edmund how amazed she was by his collection and the skill that it must take to build one.

"I love you," Peter suddenly blurted out, bending over to press a kiss to Lydia's temple. Mrs. Pevensie beamed; Susan rolled her eyes; Edmund coughed; Lucy's lips narrowed into a tight line.

"I love you, also, Peter darling," Lydia grinned, rising. "But I am so very sleepy I believe I will off to bed." He loved the way her English sentences sometimes didn't make complete sense. He loved her.

Others followed suit shortly after, and soon it was only Peter and Susan in the living room, both quietly contained in the books they perused. It was apparent to both, though, that reading was simply the other's excuse for not speaking. The silence was anything but peaceful, and it occurred to Susan she could throttle her brother right now and no one would know until the morning. It occurred to Peter that Susan was probably waiting up for her friend. As was he. But he shouldn't and he had no right to and he _realized_ this. But perhaps she would return home, and he would feel at peace again, and then he could dismiss all of his confusion as simple concern for her safety.

Susan was just about to finally speak when a car was heard stopping, and giggles drifted along the sidewalk. Instantly she leapt to her feet and across the living room to the front door, flinging it open as Lesley helped Charlotte to the door. Peter rose and approached with interest, curious to see with his own eyes the state of things. Both were bundled, both laughing with red cheeks and bright eyes.

"You see, Miss Pevensie, I've brought her home safe and sound," Lesley grinned.

Peter saw Susan's jaw harden, but Charlotte quickly scolded, "Oh, don't give me that glare. I'm not drunk. Just a mite tipsy is all."

"No, no, of course, it would be most improper for Miss Auburn to have—I wouldn't have let her get too intoxicated, of course," Lesley stammered, but he was grinning and casting Charlotte a sideways look as he said it. The two finally laughed at some internal joke. Peter decided he hated this Lesley bloke very much.

"Well, thank you for bringing her home," Susan returned with a smile to hide her admiration, stepping aside so Charlotte could enter. Charlotte leaned around to give Lesley a quick kiss on the cheek, then waved as he ducked his head and departed. She tried to hang her coat up but missed the hook. Susan sighed and picked it up, then pulled Charlotte's scarf and gloves off. They looked very much like a mother-daughter pair, and Peter watched, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed.

"Honeset, Su, I'm not drunk," Charlotte insisted. "I promised – and I _always_ keep my promises. I was very careful. I'm just very . . ."

She trailed off and Susan asked, "Well did you have fun?"

"Oh, I had a _wonderful_ time!" she beamed, suddenly spinning a circle in the entry way. The wrap slipped from her shoulders and fell to the floor; Susan picked this up as well, but at least now gave a small laugh. "That's what it is more than the cocktails. I'm just very happy. I had missed him terribly. He's a very good man. He sent me a letter when—hello, Peter."

Peter looked up from watching her feet. They were much smaller than Lydia's, but then _she_ was smaller than Lydia, so that was fitting. She stood on her toes when she twirled and it made her look like a little fairy.

"Hello, Charlotte."

"You mean 'good night, Peter,'" Susan corrected, grabbing Charlie's arms and steering her towards the stairs. "It's late."

Charlotte laughed, "All right, all right, Mum, don't push. Goodnight, Peter."

It was the most she had said to him, really, in several days, and Peter felt a warmth wrap around his neck as he nodded, "Good night, Charlotte."

"He's been so odd lately," Susan shook her head once she and Charlotte had reached the landing. "He only gets stranger the older he gets. Can you get ready for bed all right?"

Charlotte pouted and gave Susan a tight hug, "Won't you forgive me for Paris, Suzie?"

"Forgive you for what?"

"For all the times you had to take care of me?" Susan started to object, but Charlie insisted, "I'm not drunk. I promise. I just needed a few drinks to help me relax . . . it was wonderful to see Lesley, but it _did_ stir up some old bad memories. He was very good friends with Jack."

"Oh?" Unwittingly, Peter's comments stirred in the back of Susan's mind. "How did they know each other?"

"Jack directed a couple films he was in. And anyways, everyone knows everyone in Hollywood. It's just this drunk, spoiled incestual family, really." She frowned at the carpet in the dark hall for a moment, then shrugged, "But Lesley's a wonderful man. Peter needn't have worried."

"He seems like it. But go get some sleep. I'll see you in the morning." Charlotte bid her goodnight as well, kissed her cheek, and then tiptoed into the room.

Susan took her time preparing for bed before curling down beneath the covers. As soon as her body stilled, though, her legs itched to pace. Her brain suddenly jumped to a dozen different places and sleep was certainly not one of them. Lucy was already snuggled in her bed across the room, her eyes flickering around the dream world she walked in. Susan couldn't quit tossing and turning. She sighed and stared at the ceiling, trying to organize the thoughts that suddenly overwhelmed her.

_Peter needn't have worried._ What in the world had Charlotte meant by that? _Had_ Peter worried? Was that why he had sat up late? But that made no sense because Peter had no reason nor right to worry about Charlotte. Even hearing them call each other by first names was odd to her because they didn't exactly ever talk.

But the more Susan thought about it, the more suspicions began to take shape, ideas that were certainly ridiculous and uncalled for but not entirely without foundation. She hadn't missed the hard set of Peter's jaw when he'd shook hands with Lesley Stevens, going out of his way to make his grip firm. It was a stance she hadn't seen him take in ages, not since he'd worn a crown and greeted ambassadors as the High King of Narnia.

She so rarely thought of their time there, pushing those memories to the back of her mind to suppress the overwhelming sadness that accompanied the knowledge that she would never get to go back. She wished Charlotte had gotten to go with them. She was sure Charlotte would have loved Aslan and Cair Paravel and the fauns and centaurs, probably even more than _she_ had. Such a place seemed right up Charlie's alley, and Susan liked to think of how safe her friend would be there, hidden away from the vices of Paris and the pressure of intrusive questions and the heartbreak of wicked ex-fiancés.

As a queen, Susan had learned to interpret her brother's expressions alarmingly well. He had reacted to Lesley as though Lesley formed some sort of threat, but she couldn't for the life of her figure out what it was. Lesley hadn't even batted an eyelash at Lydia –and though this gave Susan a secret thrill, because obviously Charlotte was more captivating, she didn't see how it concerned Peter. But then, Peter was making a habit of sticking his nose where it didn't belong. Perhaps he had felt protective on behalf of his sisters, or even of Charlotte, but she didn't see where he got off feeling that way. Clearly Charlotte was overjoyed to see Lesley, and the way she spoke of him alluded to pleasant memories. That was good. Charlotte deserved good people in her life, even beautiful cinema stars that Susan could gape at all day long.

Anyways, there had always been aspects to Peter's personality that Susan didn't understand. They were friendly, but he was definitely closer with Lucy, and herself with Edmund. There was no telling what Charlie had said or done to make Peter view her as a subject of his kingdom that needed ruling over, as he apparently did. But this only annoyed Susan because they weren't in Narnia anymore. They were in London, and Peter had no right to act as though everyone around them existed in homage to him. Peter had no right to go digging for secrets of Charlotte. Her dear friend was being all together too forgiving of this outright insult, Susan decided. She would speak to her brother again and make it very clear that he was to have nothing more to do with Charlotte. Not even to behave protectively – it wasn't his place. Certainly not if he was going to go around asking intrusive questions one minute and then intimidating Charlotte's old friends the next. What a nutjob he had turned into since meeting Lydia! Perhaps it was all her fault . . .

Susan sighed and pushed herself out of bed. A glass of water might help her sleep. Quietly she shut the door behind her, pressing her lips together to keep from laughing as Lydia's snores rolled out from beneath the guest room door. The house was dark and silent as she crept along the hall and down the stairs.

The creak of the last step before she landed on the floor seemed to echo through the house only to be sucked into the warmth of the living room where the fire was dying in the hearth. A lone figured lounged on the carpet, staring into the low flames.

At the creak, he turned, blurting out as he did so, "Look, Charlie, I'm sorry about it all, I just—oh! Um . . . hi, Su." He seemed to shudder and quickly turned back to the fire.

Susan's eyes narrowed suspiciously before she demanded, "Don't just turn away, Peter. What was that?"

"Huh . . . what?" he tossed back, not bothering to turn around. His guilty behavior was making this worse, he knew, but he didn't know how to act that _wouldn't_ appear guilty – and anyways, what should he feel guilty about?

Susan strode fully into the room, stomping over to him to demand, "Don't 'what' me. What made you think I was Charlotte?"

"Nothing," he shrugged, trying to play casual.

"She's in bed. Asleep."

"All right! I didn't mean anything by it. I thought you might be her and I was going to apologize. You should be _happy_ about that."

"But why would you assume someone coming down the stairs at night would be her?" And suddenly things clicked in Susan's head. Peter saw it on her face but didn't realize what assumption she had made until she pressed, "Has something been going on between you two while everyone else is slee-- "

"Geez, Susan, what are you—how is that even— are you honestly accusing us of _that_?"

"No, no, I know, I'm sorry," she quickly apologized, wiping at her face. "That—that's awful to think. I'm sorry. I know, she's not—she wouldn't do that."

"Neither would I!" he retorted, standing and glaring at her. "You forget my girlfriend is sleeping upstairs right now."

"Right. Well then what _has_ been going on?"

"We just talked a couple times when we couldn't sleep," he retorted defensively, still irked by her assumption.

"About what?"

He shrugged, "Nothing important," suddenly not wanting to tell. Those were his and Charlotte's private conversations. Besides, she was just blowing everything out of proportion, per usual, and trying to make him out to be some philanderer. Peter Pevensie might be many things, but he would never cheat on Lydia, and he would never make a move on his sister's friend, nor take advantage of a guest of their house, or any of those other rotten things Susan seemed to imagine him capable of. He wanted to yell at her, wounded by her accusations, but the last thing they needed was someone coming downstairs.

"Well they should stop," Susan insisted, snippily crossing her arms. "It's inappropriate. Like you said, your girlfriend is upstairs and—"

"What, it's _my_ fault? I didn't make her talk with me. It's not like we're having a secret affair or anything, Susan. We just talked. Edmund talks to—"

"Not in the dark living room while everyone else is sleeping!"

"We didn't _do_ anything wrong."

Susan suddenly dove closer and glared straight into his face as she warned, "If I find out you have done _anything_ to take advantage of my friend's fragile condition—"

"Fragile condition? She can go out drinking with some hot-shot party man but _I_ can't talk to her in our own living room? What fragile condition is she—"

"She has had a rough few months. She automatically trusts you because you're my brother, and she feels indebted to you for the train ticket so of course she would trust you--"

"Susan, we just sat and talked. There's nothing wrong with that."

"Do not talk to my friend again. Do not look at her. Do not stand near her. Do not _think_ about her! Is that clear?"

"She doesn't talk to me anymore after Sunday anyways," he mumbled, his glance falling to the ground. He felt the heat of Susan's warning glare, but it honestly bothered him less than that simple truth. It wasn't _his_ choice that there were no more nighttime conversations.

Unsure what to make of his comment, Susan turned and stomped back upstairs. She had never thought her own brother would try to take advantage of a poor broken-hearted girl. Of course Charlie would talk to him. She was kind. She would politely put up with his advances and not want to cause disrupt in the family. That was probably why she was so nice to Lydia. She pitied the girlfriend of the wandering Pevensie boy.

Across the hall, Charlotte crept silently back to bed and prayed to God she hadn't just done it again.

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_Prove Twilighters aren't the only ones that can review! haha. :) See ya next chapter! _


	9. Chapter 9

_AN: Hey guys, sorry for the stretch. Life is kicking my butt, but definitely keep on me about updates; my e-mail is listed in my profile, so if I go to long, feel free to bug me, haha. It really DOES motivate me. I know a lot of you have questions about Charlotte, so some things are answered in this chapter. A couple things are still left vague, particularly concerning Lesley, but don't worry, more answers will come. _

_ALSO, anyone have any ideas where I can post links to this story? I submitted it to narnia revolution or whatever, but I guess I got rejected, lol, because I never heard back. Where else do y'all read fanfiction? Any lj communities or something?_

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**Chapter Nine**

Charlotte woke with a headache in the morning, and wished desperately to spend the day in bed. She was very tired, was the excuse to Susan, who reacted sympathetically but reminded her that she had promised to visit the British Museum with Edmund and Lucy. Both knew it was simply that Charlotte should not have had quite so many cocktails the night before.

"And I do never break my promises," Charlotte sighed. "I suppose I'll just have to tough it out." She pushed herself out of bed and dressed while Susan ran to tell Lucy and Edmund that really, Charlotte was wonderfully self-sacrificing and they ought to be especially grateful to her for going with them now, through her pain.

Mrs. Pevensie had breakfast waiting, and when Lydia heard of the rest of the children headed to the museum, she only had to lift an eyebrow to get Peter to agree that they might as well go along. Charlotte hoped no one noticed her slight frown in response, because it certainly had nothing to do with any ill will towards Peter and Lydia. Only she wished very much that they would go off and do something on their own. Perhaps they could take their rainchecked dinner and Peter could propose to Lydia. That would be a lovely way to end of the day.

Really. Lydia was good for Peter. Charlotte chanted that to herself as she buttoned up her coat and adjusted her hat. They would have beautiful little blond children. He would spoil her into old age and she would see to it that there was a roaring fire for him to read before after work every night. They would have a lovely, wonderful life together, and Charlotte was happy for them both. Truly.

To think how clearly Lesley had made things up for her in one single sentence. He always did have a gift for reading people. He was right about her and he had been right about Jack and the small possibility that he was right about Peter terrified her.

Charlotte watched Peter help Lydia into her coat and bit back the tangle of emotions that knotted in her throat. Lydia tucked her hand into his arm as they walked to the Tube stop, and all during the ride, and as they stepped into the museum. He smiled at her and patted her hand.

She was happy for them. And jealous, yes, that they had found such wonderful, beautiful love in a cold and malicious world. Her own love story hadn't worked out quite so well, and that was regrettable, but look at all she had going for her! She was young and beautiful. If she really wanted she could go back to California and return to the film industry, though the idea truly sickened her. Instead, she would go back to Paris, back to her lovely little apartment with the best friend a girl could ask for, and study art in order to try and make something beautiful in what she saw as such an ugly world. She would try to behave herself until Susan found someone to marry, and then she could really let loose and do what she wanted. The flattering admirers, the stiff drinks, the smoky nightclubs: she disliked them because it clearly hurt Susan to see her partake of what she viewed as a dirty life, and she disliked them because they were so false and pretentious. But no one there cared about anything, and everything just seemed so much better with a bit of gin warming their belly. And someday Susan would marry and then . . .

Then what would Charlotte do? Perhaps she could – no, keeping in touch with Lucy in the hopes of someday living with her was absurd. She was a bad influence. She was a bad person. Her dirtiness didn't need to be anywhere near such a sweet girl. Really, Susan deserved better, but Susan was strong enough.

Charlotte gazed up at a wall-size painting of some religious parade, everyone decked out in bright reds, greens, and blues. Shiny gold paint emphasized the gaudiness, while plates of grapes and bread and meat were being passed around among the people gathered to admire the saintly figures on horseback. The chaos of the pictures almost hurt her eyes, everyone clamoring for food and attention and a position near the holy figures.

But not Charlotte. She wouldn't have clamored for any attention at all. She would have sat down in the bottom corner and watched everyone with their family and their friends. Because she had none. She didn't belong here with the Pevensies and it had been a mistake to think that she did, that she could find some sort of home with the family of her best friend. She was hopeless, ugly, and alone, and that was all she would ever be, and what then was the point of even bothering? She should leave, and fast, before she did anything to cause any more problems than she maybe already had. She should flee back to Paris now – right this very second! She would have to stop at the house to get her train ticket to exchange at the station, and then she could get the things still in their apartment in Paris and leave a very apologetic note for Susan. From there she could go . . . go where? Susan was the only woman she knew, and the scandal if she moved in with one of her male friends –Lesley, for instance—would be . . .

Well, but did she deserve anything less? Certainly not.

Just as she turned to put her plan into action, though, a hand pressed to her back and a voice asked gently, "Are you all right, Charlie?" She gasped and tensed and only realized how near tears she had been, standing there with her hands clasped beneath her chin and her entire body closed inward.

"Peter!" she gasped, horrified, surprised, and relieved to see him there. "What—where's Lydia?"

"She's looking at the statues and said I was bothering her with my . . . well, I just don't think statues are very excit—"

"Where's Susan?" she tried again, hoping for anyone to save her from this situation. It was just the two of them, no one else in sight, and how lovely would it be for that to be the way it was always?

Charlotte frowned at herself. She had slipped and let herself think it and welcomed the pain that accompanied the realization that it would not, _could_ not ever be. She deserved the pain for letting herself think such awful things. After all, Peter was a taken man!

But that hadn't stopped her before, had it?

No.

With a strangled cry, she turned away and took a few steps, but the noise had been a bad idea. Now Peter's concern only intensified, and he dove after her, grabbing her upper arms firmly and forcing her to look at him.

"Charlotte, honest, what's wrong?"

_I'm being a nut, that's what's wrong._ She needed to calm herself because dramatics were not going to fix this. Granted, nothing would . . .

With a hesitant smile, she offered, "I just think perhaps it is inappropriate for you and I to be alone when—"

"Oh," he interrupted her, his voice falling flat. After a pause, he seemed to realize he was still holding her and yanked his hands away to rub the back of his neck. "Susan got to you too, huh?"

"I . . ." but then she recalled what she had overheard and nodded, lied, "Yes. And I think she's right. It's entirely inappropriate."

He frowned and gave her a hard look, "But we were just . . . talking." She sighed. Of course. He was so sweet and innocent. Of course he wouldn't understand what was inappropriate about it. He lived in a world where the truth actually mattered and people trusted you and people didn't do awful things to each other. There weren't scandals or deceit or manipulation and people actually cared about the needs and feelings of those other than themselves.

"I know, Peter," she frowned, and her hand betrayed her, reaching out to rest on his forearm. He was very warm, and she could feel his muscles twitching through his sweater. She pulled her hand away. "I just would hate for Lydia to take things the wrong way. I would hate for her to think anything was going on between us besides friendly conversation."

She wondered if Peter actually listened to her words at all. It was impossible to tell. _Nothing is going on between us besides friendly conversation_. Did he hear her? Did he believe her?

Well, they _had_ said Charlotte was one of Hollywood's most talented rising stars before her sudden disappearance. Perhaps there was something in that, because Peter suddenly gave a nod.

"Right. Of course you're right, Charlotte. But, before you stop talking to me for—"

She rolled her eyes, "Don't be dramatic, Peter. I'm not going to stop talking to you. I just don't want—I wasn't thinking before about how it might look, and I don't want to—"

"Cause problems, right, right. I heard you. But may I show you something first?" He held his hand out and waited, watching as her eyes locked hesitantly on his fingers and she chewed her lip.

_Of course, Peter, you can show me anything._ She relented and placed her hand in his, trying to keep the flush from her cheeks as he slid her hand into his elbow and led her away from the painting. Her hand had been in the crook of dozens of handsome men's arms, even Lesley's only a day before, and yet it was the heat of Peter's arm through his sweater seeping into her fingers that made her blush. She tried to tell herself it was only because she was anxious someone would see and spread word about a scandal. She tried to tell herself that the entire attraction to Peter was simply because he was off limits, and she had always, even as a poverty-stricken tenant farmer's little girl, wanted what she could not have.

Charlotte, though, had never been good at lying to herself.

Peter led her through rooms for several minutes, and she anxiously scanned faces, terrified Lydia or Susan, or even Edmund or Lucy would see them. It shouldn't matter. He was just going to show her something. All they did was talk. It shouldn't matter. But it _did_ matter, because surely anyone would be able to feel the waves of tension rolling off of Charlotte when Peter finally brought her to a stop before a small painting at the far end of a room of much more garish and attention-demanding paintings. This one was almost hidden simply by its lack of gawdiness.

She dropped his arm and stepped closer, as did he, but the painting captivated her too much to react to the way their arms pressed together. It was smaller than a film poster but larger than a looseleaf sheet, presented in a simple gold frame. A beautiful white palace perched on the edge of a cliff, clouds drifting around the high turrets and a few seagulls circling the trees on either side. A brilliant red and gold flag waved in the wind, and crashing waves against the shore seemed to be hurrying forward to bow before it. Several tall stained-glass windows peered out from the castle, and though the details were difficult to make out, it was clear a great light shone from within. In most ways, the painting was beautiful but insignificant, but in looking at it, Charlotte felt something, some sort of strength or beauty, some importance radiating from the frame.

"It's . . . what is this?"

Peter was vibrating with excitement beside her as he beamed, "This, Charlie, is Cair Paravel."

"Your palace? It looks like this?"

"No," he shook his head. "This _is_ it." He pointed to the small tag beside the painting that named the painting as "Cair Paravel," painted by _Anonymous_ only a year before, donated to the museum by Professor Diggory Kirke.

"Diggory Kirke!" she gasped, remembering the name from the history of Narnia. Peter had told her of a little boy, Diggory Kirke, and his neighbor Polly, and the wicked white witch, and the lamp post which had all featured so prominently in their own adventures of Narnia years later. "But, Peter, then . . . I don't understand! Did the stories come from this painting or the painting from the stories?"

He seemed pleased by her question and explained in a low voice, "Well, Charlotte, it would seem the painting comes in the middle. I told you of the battle with the white witch and our reign following that. Then I told you of another adventure where we helped Prince Caspian regain the throne, right?" She nodded. "But remember you asked me what happened during all that time between our reign and our adventure with Prince Caspian?" Again she nodded and he laughed. "You're more clever than I am, Charlie, because I didn't mean for you to notice that there was any gap at all. But of course you would. Well, during that time, we actually left Narnia. It seems someone else visited during that time and painted this picture, very soon after we left, I suppose, since it looks very much like it did during our reign."

Charlotte's face screwed up in confusion, "But, I don't understand still. You _left_? Where did you _go_?"

"Why, back to Finchley, of course. Well, not at first. We were staying with Professor Kirke, you see, because of the air raids."

"Oh," was all Charlotte said because she didn't know what else to say. Peter gave her a concerned look and leaned closer, too close, but Charlotte didn't think to pull back. Her brain was trying to make pieces fit that clearly fit together, but the picture they created was . . . was impossible.

"Charlotte, would you . . . would you believe me if I told you that . . . that Narnia is a real place?" She stared hard at the painting for a moment before realizing he was watching her, waiting for a reaction.

She gave him a small smile. "Of course I would, Peter. I _do_, Peter. I mean . . . that I would believe anything you told me," she stammered out. Was she allowed to say that? She probably shouldn't, at any rate. To smooth it over, she ignored his grin and explained, "Do you know . . . I always knew that, I think. From the first story you told me, I think I knew, or I _felt_, like it really existed. Or maybe I just hoped or wished but . . . but it does?"

"It does, Charlie, and I wish with everything in me I could take you there. At least there's this painting that you can see . . . but I should go find Su, Ed, and Lu. They'll want to see this."

He turned to go, but before he had moved too far, Charlotte pressed, "You showed me first?"

"They don't know I've told you anything," Peter admitted, and now he looked sheepish. He glanced up at her through his lashes and added, "Besides, I wanted to see your face when I showed you. . . and apparently I'm not allowed to look at your face around other people."

_Pretend you didn't hear that_, Charlotte ordered herself, spinning back to face the painting. She heard him hesitate, then leave. When he returned with his siblings, she kept her distance and perused other paintings, listening with envy to their squeals and gasps of shock and delight. Peter glanced over but she avoided his eyes then and for the rest of their day at the museum, skirting away from him any time he took a step in her direction. He was right, he wasn't supposed to look at her face, and he wasn't supposed to _want_ to look at her face, but the only reason that would be a rule was because of the meaning. Anyone could look at anyone's face. That wasn't what caused scandal. What caused scandal was what the look _meant_. If there wasn't anything between them, he would be allowed to look at her face all he wanted, because it would be the same as looking at Lucy or Susan. But he was implying, by accident but an ironic accident, that he couldn't look at her in front of other people because it would "give them away."

He had accidentally called her his mistress.

And Charlotte laughed because Peter was so sweet and he just didn't know, and because he was older than her so she shouldn't think of him as so young, and because she was too young to know that sort of thing either but she did. She was ruined for this world.

Finally they were all meeting at the front, preparing to head home. Lucy and Susan were in the cloak room and Edmund was poking at something near the door, and Peter and Lydia were strolling out of the cloak room, bundled and ready for the cold. Well, Charlotte would prove that it was okay for her and Peter to talk. That they _could_ talk without it being secretive and scandalous. Because it meant nothing.

She approached quickly and asked, "If it's real, is _he_ real?" Then she realized how vague that was, and probably Peter would have no idea what she was talking about and she would just look like an idiot.

Instead he gave a tight smile and nodded, "Yes, he is."

"And he . . . you said he loves everyone?"

"Everyone."

"Even . . . even someone who hasn't been as good as they should be?"

"Perhaps Ed should tell you his story," he suggested, and Charlotte didn't know whether he was joking or not. She chewed her lip in thought, but he added, "Everyone, Charlotte."

Lydia giggled beside him, "What are you two speaking about? So secret!"

"Oh, just some story I was telling Charlotte about a painting, that's all," Peter assured her, patting her arm. It suddenly occurred to Charlotte that . . . that maybe he had never told Lydia about Narnia. It seemed logical that he would have: she was his sweetheart, after all, and Charlotte had guessed how dear Narnia was to Peter's heart even before he had confessed it was a real place. She would think about the logistics of that later, when she had time to remember every word of every story and this time _know_ it was real. But for now, she glanced curiously between Peter and Lydia, hoping he would understand her unasked question.

When he said nothing, she guessed, "Me first?"

"You only."

It took everything in her not to run away because _how_ could he say something like that with Lydia right beside him? To anyone, it sounded scandalous. And Charlotte couldn't even chalk it up to innocence this time, because he had just lied to Lydia, more or less, and quite easily. Story about a painting. He made it sound so singular and momentary, a one-time occurrence. But it wasn't. And he wasn't telling Lydia, either about Narnia or about them sitting up late, which meant he was keeping secrets about Charlotte from Lydia . . . even if the talks had been nothing but innocent, everything around them had so quickly turned messy. And it was getting harder for her to try and convince herself Lesley was wrong.

Why did Charlotte _feel_ like she and Peter were having an affair?

Susan was coming out of the cloak room and Charlotte scurried to her side. Peter wasn't supposed to talk to her, and she sure didn't want him getting in trouble when she had been the one to broach the conversation. Really, how could Lydia _not_ wonder, having stood there for that cryptic exchange? Had Charlotte been in her shoes, she would have been going insane with jealousy and suspicion.

But Lydia wasn't her. Lydia was sure of Peter's love for her, and sure of Charlotte's friendship, and sure of the people around her. She had no reason to suspect anyone, and so she didn't.

"Didn't you enjoy it?" Lucy asked, slipping her arm into Charlotte's. "It's wonderful fun. It was closed down sometimes during the war but they've put it back together quite nicely, don't you think?"

Charlotte grinned, "Well I didn't see it before, but it's certainly lovely now." That set Lucy off chatting about her favorite parts, and Susan offered enough responses that Charlotte didn't have to say much. Instead her mind wandered to Cair Paravel and the sheer cliffs and the Lion Aslan that loved people, even the ones who didn't deserve it.

As if sensing she needed saving, Edmund stole Charlotte away, and the two of them walked between the other two pairs. Should she ask him about Narnia? About what had happened? That might betray Peter's trust, though; he had told her that no one knew he'd told her about Narnia. Perhaps he wasn't supposed to tell. Perhaps that was yet another secret piling on top of her chest, another thing that shouldn't have been a big deal but was.

She forced herself to focus on Ed. She wasn't blind to his little infatuation. It was sweet and innocent and even he knew it wasn't anything serious. For that she was grateful. The last thing she wanted was to go breaking a perfectly good heart. He had said himself, a couple days before, while the two of them were trying their hand at Backgammon, that he really wouldn't mind finding a girl _like_ her some day. Charlotte was beyond flattered and relieved and mused to herself that, were she not such a disaster, she wouldn't mind finding someone _like_ Edmund, too. Perhaps that was her problem. She was always attracted to the complicated ones, the over-achievers, the go-get-em ones. The already-taken ones.

But suddenly Charlotte smiled, because that didn't matter. She was going to Narnia. One way or another, she was going to find a way to Aslan, and she would tell him everything and let him do with her what he would. Perhaps, if he was as merciful as Peter made him out to be, he would allow her to live in Narnia, whatever state it might be in right now. She could live there forever, far away from Hollywood and Paris and London, far away from her family and Jack and Peter, far away from all the things she had done wrong, far away from all the things she wasn't allowed to feel. If she could only get to Narnia, everyone would be safe.

Now how did one go about getting to an imaginary land that wasn't so imaginary after all?

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_So . . . what's going through Peter's head? What's the deal with Lesley? What are your feelings about Charlotte now that the self-hatred has been let loose? More reviews means a faster update! :)_


	10. Chapter 10

_AN: Sorry for the long break between updates; I had midterms and spring break. To make up for the long break, here are more answers! Also, this is the longest chapter yet. I know there's not a whole lot of action, but it's super important. *sings*past the point of no return,no going back now . . . _

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**Chapter Ten**

Peter was pretending to sleep in order to spy. It was silly and juvenile but desperate times called for desperate measures and Peter was reaching his wit's end. He didn't know what to do anymore, and so he had opted to do nothing, simply lie back and let the women in his life decide his future. Or at least he wished they would. He remembered a time, back in Narnia, when Susan had been lecturing him about something, and he had yelled at her, "Well why don't you just get it all sorted and let me know how you've decided I'm going to spend the rest of my life!" She had angrily insisted she should, that she could manage his life much better than he was. It had been some kingdom affairs disagreement at the time.

Now he really wished it had been a valid agreement.

It wasn't so much that he had come to terms with some fateful love for Charlotte for which he was willing to quickly cast Lydia aside. No, he _did_ love Lydia, and had loved her solidly since they had met. He knew he could be happy married to her, that they could make a good life together, and he couldn't say that about Charlotte. Everything about Charlotte was so convoluted.

In reality, Peter sometimes wished they would run really hard into each other and combine into one perfect woman. Each possessed qualities he wished he could pick out and stitch together into his ideal woman. Lydia was cheerful and doting, while Charlotte was oftentimes morose and distant. Lydia made him smile and swell with pride at her social grace, while Charlotte made him think and question everything about himself. Lydia loved him for all that he was; Charlotte made him realize how much more he could be, remembering how once he had been High King of Narnia and now couldn't even figure out his own feelings. Lydia was simple and honest, while Charlotte was complicated and quite possibly a lying home-wrecker. But Charlotte was intriguing and overwhelming, and while he appreciated the ease with which Lydia could be read and figured out, the mysteries surrounding Charlotte were frustratingly captivating.

"That's all it is," he mumbled, and then realized he was supposed to be asleep. So he mumbled a bit more to make it look like he was talking in his sleep and twisted on the couch. He knew that Lydia would be fooled and that Charlotte probably would not. But that had to be all there was to it: that Lydia was right for him, and Charlotte was just the niggling little question that he needed to solve before he could shove her out of his way and go on with his happily simple life with Lydia as his wife. She would be a good wife. Charlotte was too dominant, too strong, too clever and provoking to be a good wife. Lydia was born to be a wife, and Charlotte was born to be a seductress –perhaps physically as well as mentally.

Peter groaned with disgust at his own thoughts. What an awful thing to think about Charlotte. She was not born to be a seductress. She was born to be loved and cherished, just as Lydia, Susan, and Lucy were. Peter knew that.

He squinted to subtly watch as Charlotte, Lydia, and Susan hunched around the coffee table nearby, their heads pressed together: red, dark brown, and light blond. If only Lucy's light brown had joined, but she had gone with her mother to buy new shoes, a special treat so close to Christmas. Their fingers were flitting over pieces of ribbon and twigs as they pressed them into wreaths. The church wanted them to hand out to visitors at the Christmas Eve service, and Mum had said "her girls" would do it. Charlotte seemed to be the only one that didn't mind. Peter couldn't make her work. Home-wrecking was about as selfish as it got, but he couldn't make that fit with the girl who would spend her Thursday afternoon pricking her fingers with sharp sticks to make someone else happy.

"Well he wants me to go to dinner with his family this weekend," Charlotte answered some question Peter had missed. "I haven't decided if I'm going yet or not."

"Oh, you should!" Lydia insisted, grabbing Charlotte's hand familiarly.

Susan nodded, "You should, Charlotte. He seems so wonderful—"

"He is, but . . . Lydia, are you going to be in Paris any time soon?" Peter wanted to laugh at such an obvious subject change, but wouldn't say he wasn't grateful, both for Charlotte's hesitancy to join Lesley Stevens for dinner _and_ to divulge what had gone on between them on Tuesday evening. If she wasn't willing to share, Peter was pretty sure he didn't want to know.

Immediately Lydia launched into suggestions, insisting she would be visiting her family soon and was hoping to bring Peter with her. Even if he didn't come, though, she hoped she would be able to see Susan and Charlotte.

Susan politely agreed, "Yes, that would be lovely."

"Yes, lovely," Charlotte agreed. "The post-holiday season is always so depressing; it would be nice to look forward to a visit from you. I'm sure Peter would be bored with us girls, anyway."

Then Edmund ruined everything, crashing down the stairs and hollering, "Come on, Su, Charlie, you've got to listen to this radio program. It will make you split your sides!"

"Oh, turn it on down here so we can keep with the wreaths," Charlotte insisted, motioning to the old radio in the corner.

"But Peter is sleeping . . ." Lydia mentioned, to which Charlotte laughed and motioned for Edmund to turn it on. Peter grumbled at the noise and turned on the couch to continue the charade, but he knew his number was up. Stupid Charlotte.

After supper that evening, the familiar routine commenced. Everyone gathered in the fire-warmed den for activities until, one by one, drifting off to their rooms upstairs. Lucy went first, then Mr. Pevensie, followed by Edmund and Lydia, Susan, until only Mrs. Pevensie, Charlotte, and Peter remained. Peter read on the couch, Charlotte in the chair, and Mrs. Pevensie stitched, her tongue poking out between her red lips as she concentrated on monogramming the handkerchief for her sister.

Peter glanced up at Charlotte, watching the way the firelight pulled out the gold in her red hair. She had worn her hair up, but now tugged on it until the pins came out and it fell around her shoulders. Peter saw Mrs. Pevensie cast a surprised and slightly scornful glance in Charlotte's direction; in her day, after all, such an act would have been entirely inappropriate. But Peter didn't see what was so bothersome. After all, he preferred Charlotte with her hair down. And her relaxing her hair in front of him was just further testament to the ease she felt around him. She probably did the same thing around her brothers. It wasn't as though she were undressing right there.

Mrs. Pevensie yawned and closed her eyes for a moment before going back to her stitching. Clearly she was ready to sleep, and Peter wondered why she hadn't left yet. Then he saw her cast another glance at Charlotte, and suddenly Peter felt heat wrap around his neck. Because of Charlotte! His own mother, whom had adored Charlotte from the beginning, whom had even failed miserably at hiding her preference for Charlotte to Lydia, refused to leave them alone in the living room together. Of course she wouldn't know that they had already spent plenty of time together, unless Susan had said something, which he highly doubted. What this meant to Peter was that it wasn't just Susan being absurd, but Susan _and_ his mother. Who else? He had never paid much attention to society or the rules it dictated for men and women; after all, he hadn't given serious attention to any girl in particular until Lydia, and she was more than happy to let him know what he was and wasn't allowed to do according to French aristocratic laws. But even his own mother didn't trust him and Charlotte to sit on opposite sides of the den, reading their own books, in the family home! The world was ridiculous!

With an indignant huff, Peter rose and tossed his book loudly onto the coffee table. "Good night, _mother_," he spat, then spun and stomped off to the stairs, not caring how confused he left the two women behind him. This was all so stupid. Why couldn't a boy and a girl simply be friends without everyone acting as though they were carrying on some secret affair? Why couldn't anyone trust them?

He waited in his room until he heard his parents' bedroom door close. Then he ambled back down to the couch, picking up his book and returning his eyes to the page as though nothing had happened. Charlotte had not moved.

"I thought you were going to bed," she suggested after a few minutes. Peter glanced surreptitiously up at her, but her eyes remained in her book.

He returned bitterly, "I'm not tired."

"You know there's a reason she wouldn't leave us alone."

"What reason is that?"

"Because it's inappropriate."

"We've spent other nights alone in this room together," he pointed out, not even balking at the audacity of his own words. "And there wasn't a problem then."

"No one knew about it then." Both were refusing to look at each other, and Peter realized again how silly this all was.

He pushed his book down and stared at her, "Is that the difference, then? It's wrong, but we're allowed to do it if no one knows? Or it's only wrong _if_ people know?" She inhaled sharply and closed her eyes for a brief moment, apparently in pain, and Peter felt a jab in his chest. He hadn't meant to hurt her, only to point out how ridiculous everyone was being. To smooth it over, he quickly added, "I don't see how we did or are doing anything wrong. We're friends."

"Yes, we are that," she nodded and said no more. Peter wanted to throttle her to get her to continue because it looked like she wanted to; he could practically see the lump of words caught in her throat. But she simply turned the page of her book and continued reading. It infuriated him. He wanted a reaction. He wanted the passion –either positive or negative—but _something_, not this silent avoidance.

So he pushed the button he knew he shouldn't and insisted, "Were you alone with Jack?"

Sure enough, that worked. Charlotte flew up, threw her book onto the floor, and made straight for the stairs. Peter intercepted her halfway across the room, grabbing her arm and spinning her so that she was pressed into his side and they were both facing the fire.

"Stop it, Peter," she hissed, and he saw with alarm the glassiness of her eyes. He hadn't meant to upset her that badly! Gee, he could be a real idiot, couldn't he?

"I'm sorry," he whispered. They were close; they were too close. One arm was around her waist, the other holding her arm. She was so little, a tiny ball of fire held in his arm. He felt his eyes drift closed and struggled against the urge to press his forehead against hers. No, no, this was wrong. He had a sweetheart! But he and Charlotte had never been this physically close and he couldn't find it in him to pull away. "I'm sorry," he repeated. "I just wanted a reaction out of you."

"Well you got it _and_ you hurt me."

Her willingness to admit that sent a shooting pain down Peter's back, but he continued, "I just wanted an answer to something, to the hundreds of questions I have. You're so frustrating, Charlie." He inhaled deeply, her sweet scent soaking into his lungs. Cinnamon. She smelled like cinnamon and something wood-like and warm, nothing like the sugar and roses of Lydia.

Suddenly she was gone, pulling quickly away and sitting on the rug before the fire with a sigh, "I know. I'm sorry."

"Will you?"

"Will I what?"

"Answer some of my questions," he pressed. It hadn't ever really occurred to him to flat-out ask her, though she had told him before that he should.

She hesitated, and then nodded before quickly adding, "But not about Jack. Just . . . please anything but him."

"Why not? Because you don't want me knowing—"

"About the scandal? Clearly you've already heard what's said about me." She gave a sad smile and shake of her head as he sat beside her, bending his legs and wrapping his arms around his knees. "I know what all the rumors are. I know which ones are true and which ones are false and I know that in the grand scheme of things, the truth only matters to those directly involved. For the same reason that your mother won't leave us alone in the room together, the rest of the world will think what they want to think, my actual actions be damned. Guilty or innocent, it doesn't matter. Innocent or guilty, I'm damned, Peter." It was a heavy answer, much deeper and more depressing than Peter had expected.

But she was wrong. In light of her answer, Peter realized she had it completely backwards. She claimed her guilt or innocence didn't matter because people had already judged her guilty via their gossip. Well, he would claim her innocent. He knew her. He could see the girl sitting beside him, the beautiful girl with the sad eyes and heartbroken smile, and nothing else mattered: the world, his mother, Susan, Lydia –nothing! Whether she had stolen a married man or not, Peter couldn't look her in the face and tell her he cared because he didn't. Her goodness cleansed her of anything she might have done wrong. Maybe it was an idealistic thought, but it was how he felt.

Peter didn't know what to say, though, so he said simply, "I won't ask then, because it doesn't matter—"

"It always matters."

"I wouldn't take you for someone who cared what others thought about you," he argued.

Again she shook her head, but this time her smile had lifted to one of amusement, "I don't about _me_. But you and Lydia and Susan and Lesley deserve to be protected. I told you, I'm damned. I don't care about _me_, only you." He knew she meant the four she had listed, not just him. He knew it. He pretended not to and smiled, then frowned.

"I wish you would stop saying that," he insisted. "You aren't damned."

"You don't know that."

"I know _you_."

"Do you?" she blurted out.

His frown deepened, "More than is apparently appropriate for me to admit. I would answer in depth, but I'm afraid it would just make you--"

"So you're really a high king, huh?" she quickly asked, and Peter didn't miss the flush that crept across her cheeks. It was beautifully innocent, her blush. He laughed at the subject change, though, and gave a short nod. She laughed as well and shook her head, "I don't know why Lucy was at all impressed with me being in films, then, if she's a _queen_."

"You believed me much more easily than I had expected."

She thought this over, chewing her lip, the admitted, "It's the way you talk about it, I think. I've become quite good at telling when people are lying to me, and you are not a liar, Peter. And the way you talk about Narnia is just so . . . so _honest_. I think maybe you are one of the most honest people I've ever known."

"I don't feel honest anymore," he sighed, but he had not meant to say that out loud. Everything he said belied the easy smile. Every time she said he was honest, he wanted to press his forehead to hers and confess that he was not honest, that actually he was awful. The thoughts he had about her were a betrayal to Lydia. But, and he wasn't sure if this was better or worse, he was lying to _her_ when he said they were just friends. And he knew it.

Before he could smooth over his slip, Charlotte insisted, "You're a good man, Peter. And that's why I don't like you asking me about Jack. Not because I'm unwilling to confess mistakes I've made but simply because you are too good to speak that monster's name. I don't like hearing you say it."

"Well I'll stop saying his name if you'll stop saying you're damned." She laughed but agreed. "Well, if I can't ask you about the dragon," –at that, she laughed again—"what _can_ I ask you about?"

"What would you like to know? I'm not really so complicated and interesting as you give me credit for."

He puffed his chest out and stretched his legs importantly, "I believe _I_ will be the judge of that. When is your birthday?"

"February 2nd, 1928. I was born in Bixby, Oklahoma. It's in the northeast, farmland, but near the mountains."

"You said you were the youngest of six?" He was surprised to see her answering his questions about her family; before she had reacted always as if the mere mention broke her heart all over again.

She nodded, "Joanna was the oldest and already had two children by the time I was born. You start having children young where I come from. After Joanna was Becky. Both of them were just awful. I guess they were too old when I was born to think of me as anything but a nuisance. They hated me and I hated them – we were nothing like Lucy and Susan."

"They sound rather stupid if they hated you . . ."

Charlotte rolled her eyes and gave him a stern look, then continued, "Timothy was next. I always felt bad for him. My father had wanted a son so badly, and he just really wasn't the sort of son Papa wanted. Very . . . intelligent, I mean, but not right for farming. He was always sick. He died right after we moved to California. Made the trip all right and then got sick and died. Mama insisted it was the fever, but I think he just got tired of our parents not . . . not loving him right, you know?" Peter nodded and apologized for her loss, but it was hard not to smile. Typically when she spoke, Charlotte was refined and elegant. Though clearly her accent was American, it seemed almost watered down. But when she spoke of her family, words began slipping in that made her sound more like the "Southerners" Peter had seen in the films: "Mama and Papa", clipping words a little shorter, even simply the cadence of her speech. It was beautiful. He wished she spoke like that all the time.

"And finally, Julian and Ashley," she continued. "They were my best friends."

"You mentioned you three were always playing together."

She nodded, "Yeah, us three. We were little monsters and didn't really outgrow it. Then I went to Hollywood and didn't ever go back."

"And your brothers?" he asked when she lapsed into silence. One of them died, he guessed.

"Julian had a good stroke of luck. After Ashley and I were gone, he met a lovely woman and married her. I never met her, but Becky and Joanna only have nasty things to say about her, which probably means she's wonderful," Charlotte laughed. "They live in Virginia and have two children. You don't understand how . . . how miraculous it is for someone born into our position to end up with such a different and successful life. Everyone else I knew growing up is either dead or leading the same life our parents led. It's a miracle, and he deserves it. I'm so happy for him." Peter waited patiently as she organized her thoughts. "And Ashley . . . left for war. Off he flew and that was the last we ever heard of him."

"He—"

"He died," she interrupted. "I didn't mean to be vague. That wasn't the last we heard of him, I guess. We got the black letter. It's funny the sort of things you remember. I was wearing a long yellow sundress with big orange flowers –it was really ugly, but it was for a film. We had just taken a break for lunch when I got a telegram from Mama saying simply, 'Ashley is dead.' I was a mess, an absolute mess. I thought about going home, but Mama didn't tell me about it until the funeral was already over and I . . ." Here Charlotte turned to him, her eyes wide and pleading as she admitted, "I hated her for that. For robbing me of my chance to say goodbye to my brother. I mean, he was dead, he couldn't – but I could have apologized."

"What did you have to apologize for?" Peter asked, wondering if she would answer.

Surprisingly, she did; perhaps she was simply on a roll, "He . . . he married a girl I didn't like and I resented him for it. Granted, I think I would have resented _any_ girl he married. He was still so young, and I felt like she was stealing him from me. He and I fought, and I left for Hollywood before we made up . . . I didn't go to the wedding, and I never apologized." She turned her face away and wiped at her cheeks and Peter felt his stomach clench. The last thing he wanted was to make her cry, but she was still talking, and he craved every iota of information he could get from her.

Unsure how to comfort a crying girl, he placed his hand gently on her arm. He expected her to pull away and scold him for being inappropriate, but of course she was in no state to do any such thing. Instead, she placed her hand on top of his and held it there, her eyes trained on their joined hands, as were his. They sat like that, still and silent, for several long minutes. Then Peter, not meaning to but unable to squelch the desire, twisted his fingers so they were almost wound around Charlotte's.

She gently pulled her hand away and stared in the fire as she continued, much calmer, "I think she was good to him. I don't really know, though. I do know that he was excited to go to war. He was like that, you know? Always looking for adventure, no matter how dangerous. After I got the telegram . . . well, Jack saw how upset I was. He cancelled filming for the rest of the day and offered to take me out to coffee. Coffee was the last thing I wanted, but I didn't know what else to do. He was there for me when no one else was, when I needed someone to help me get through the day. Losing Ashley was . . . it was the worst thing that had ever happened to me, and I've never exactly led a blessed life.

"That was the last film I ever did. I wanted out of Hollywood. Nothing mattered anymore with Ashley gone. Then my father died – he and I weren't really close, but I guess I was closer to him than anyone else in my family. I was just done with everything. When Jack asked if I would go to Paris with him, I agreed if he would marry me. By that point, as you apparently already know, rumors had started about me. It only mattered so much in Hollywood –I could have still worked with no problems. But I'm afraid I'll always be a poor little farm girl at heart, and at that point, scandal surrounding me still mattered. Mama made a point of calling and telling me I was dead to her, without even asking if the rumors were true or not. I was mortified. I didn't realize going to Paris would bring all the rumors to a head. I thought . . ." She laughed and cast her gaze down to the carpet, picking at it with her nails. "I was such a little idiot, Peter. I thought . . . oh, of all people to trust! I trusted him when he said he could make everything right. I thought he would be true to his word and that an engagement would mean something. Lies are so much prettier than the truth, so I believed him, and we went to Paris."

This was more than Peter had ever expected Charlotte to tell him. Hadn't she told him specifically not to ask about Jack? And yet here she was, telling him almost everything –except, of course, dancing around the crucial points that Peter was curious about, even if he was insistent they didn't matter.

"We arrived in Paris in July. I moved in with Susan in October."

"And between that?"

"I told you not to ask about Jack!" she reminded.

He wagged his finger at her, "I didn't. I'm asking about your time in Paris."

"Don't get clever with me, Peter. I've already said more than I meant to." She paused, her lips pursing as she thought. "But maybe I should say more. Maybe I should tell you everything and watch your back as you run up the stairs . . ." That was her motive?

Peter scoffed, "It's too late for that."

"Don't say that to me," Charlotte hissed, suddenly jumping away from him. Clearly she had understood his meaning and the look of fear and betrayal in her eyes was evident as Peter frowned at her. "Don't even think such things. It's not too late for anything."

Her words worked two ways, though, and Peter cringed, realizing where all of this could, and probably would lead. He could fight it and deny it all he wanted, but he wouldn't be able to remain passive forever. At some point in time, probably in the very near future, he was going to have to make a choice. It wasn't fair to Lydia if he and Charlotte were going to continue this non-affair, and it wasn't fair to Charlotte if he could be the first person to ever treat her as she actually deserved.

But for now, to appease her, he offered gently, "I'm sorry. I just meant I'm too curious to run away." He knew that she knew that he was lying, but she relaxed. Apparently, as long as he kept up appearances, she would play along. "Now Paris."

She smiled and shook her head, picking at her bracelet, "I'm afraid I care far too much about your opinion of me to answer that."

"I won't think less of you."

"You might not say it, but you'll think it. I'm not good like Lydia or Susan or Lucy. I . . . I mean—"

He snorted, "I'm not stupid, Charlie. I know you and this Jack fellow didn't pay for two apartments in Paris." Her eyebrows lifted in shock. "I put two and two together a long time ago. Don't act like I'm stupid."

"I don't think you're stupid, Peter, and I knew you would figure it out. I just . . . you just _say_ it like that, as though it's no big deal—"

"I said it because it's the truth, Charlie, for better or worse. I'll be honest if you will." She snorted and he knew he would only get so much from her. "And don't assume things about me. I may not be as complex as you," he teased, poking her shoulder. "But I've got a _bit_ of depth."

She laughed, then gave him a challenging look, "Then think of the implications, Peter, and let me watch you run."

"What implications?"

"I lived with Jack in Paris. Before we were married."

He knew what she was saying. And he knew why she was saying it. So she had lived in sin with her fiancé. She wasn't a virgin. Actually writing it down in the "facts" column made him cringe, but more with heartbreak for her than judgment. Sure, it was scandalous. It was appalling. He would kill Susan or Lucy for doing it. But . . . actually, in light of all that she was telling him, what choice had she had?

"All right." He dramatized thinking, holding his chin in his hand and staring pensively at the ceiling. "Done."

She rolled her eyes, "Be serious. I'm crossing every line known to mankind talking about this . . ." Only then seeming to realize where their conversation had drifted –that she had just _told_ Peter Pevensie she had participated in extramarital relations—she suddenly gasped, "I'm so awful! I shouldn't be here telling you this. What was I thinking?" She leapt up to go but just as quickly, Peter grabbed her arm and dragged her back down.

"Don't, Charlie. Stop that. Stop letting society decide how you and I should treat each other or speak to each other or what we should say." She was forced to sit again, and he pulled her a bit closer, "I don't care if it's inappropriate to say it to me. I'm flattered that you feel comfortable enough to say it. This isn't a conversation between you, me, and the world. It's between you and me. It's none of the world's business. I'm . . . I'm honored that you trust me."

"Aren't you disgusted? You should be."

He shrugged, "Not disgusted. I mean, I'm not thinking about it in detail here," and she laughed. "The idea of you living with a man bothers me less than the idea of you living with _that_ man. I don't think less of you, only I hate him for taking advantage of you."

"I chose to go to Paris with him. I never did anything against my will."

"You were boxed in. He took advantage of your grief when your brother died and then your father, waited until you felt isolated and needed an escape, and then dragged you around the world to a foreign city where you had no one to rely on but him," Peter illustrated.

Charlotte had never, not once in her life, thought of it in that manner. She fell silent, staring into the fire. Could Peter be—no. She had made her choices.

She wanted to get away from the reality that she had just confessed to Peter about living with Jack –really, why did she always say too much to him?—and so explained after a pause, "I was bored in Paris. He would take me to nightclubs and fancy dinners and the ballet at first, but that was the world I had tried to leave in Hollywood. Then he suggested I find a hobby, and I realized I really enjoyed art, so I began taking classes. At night, he would suggest I stay home and paint instead of going to the clubs, and I agreed. It was nice being alone, I guess. I had never in my life been alone before."

"And you liked it?"

"For a while," she shrugged. "It's hard to think when everyone is telling you what _they_ think. It was peaceful. Then class was cancelled one day. I came home when Jack wasn't expecting me. Did Susan tell you this?"

He shook his head, "She had only told me that you had a fiancé but things went poorly. She never said who did what or who called it off or . . . she respects your privacy."

"She's a good friend," Charlie smiled, running her fingers along the carpet. "I called it off, I suppose, but maybe I just tell myself that because really, there was never anything to call off. Jack was never going to marry me. I came back from class early and found him with another woman." Peter inhaled sharply. He had thought that was what she building up to, but he'd hoped he was wrong. "And the sick bastard didn't even care," she laughed, but it was a pained, harsh laugh. Peter wanted to touch her again but feared she would pull away. "Told me to get out until he was finished. She wasn't the only woman he had been with, and maybe I had even known before and just chose to ignore it . . . but when I actually walked in . . . you have to stop ignoring it at that point."

Peter's jaw clenched. He wanted Jack dead. He realized that wasn't the way one was supposed to think in England. He realized it was High King Peter crying out for justice, but Peter felt warmth in his chest as he pictured himself running a sword straight through Jack's stomach. Or knocking his head off. Or stomping on his throat. The more graphic, the better. How dare he do such a thing to Charlie. How dare he!

"I didn't tell you that for your sympathy," Charlie suddenly insisted, shoving his arm. She had seen his defensive posture. "It was my own fault, Peter. I should never have put myself in that position in the first place. I told you because . . . because I'm afraid you're developing a much more flattering image of me than I deserve."

Peter snorted and tossed his head, "I'll tell you what you deserve, Charlie. You deserve someone to finally take you seriously and treat you like you deserve. No one has –not your family, and definitely not Jack."

"Well," she shrugged. "Maybe that's true, but it's nothing you need concern yourself with."

"And why not?"

"You have someone to concern yourself with, Peter." And just like that, she laid it out for him. She poked him in the chest and reminded him that he couldn't take care of her because he was supposed to take care of Lydia. He couldn't wrap his arms around her in comfort and breathe in the cinnamon from her skin and show her what it meant to truly be loved and appreciated, because that's what he had agreed to do for Lydia.

He had never felt so trapped before. On one hand, the girl he had, who was at least superficially perfect for him. On the other hand, the girl whom he should, according to society, hold his nose and run away from. It was hard to remember Lydia at all, sitting in such an intimate bubble with Charlie. He could see now why it was inappropriate for them to be alone together. With as intoxicating as Charlotte was, he forgot everything else when he was with her. Perhaps later, once away from the influence of her flushed cheeks, he would really consider all she had said and be horrified. Perhaps he would want nothing more to do with her. Clearly that's what Charlotte was hoping for. He couldn't honestly see that happening.

With a frown, Peter sighed, "But maybe—" but Charlotte's hand was suddenly over his mouth. He smiled and pulled her hand away, holding her tiny wrist loosely in his fingers. "You don't even know what I was going to say."

"I don't want to hear what you were going to say."

"But—"

"No buts, Peter." She leaned in closer, so close Peter almost wondered if she was going to kiss him. But of course she wouldn't. He saw that now. He saw that he couldn't tell what her feelings were towards him. Maybe he was her brother substitute. She hadn't said anything to oppose that. Perhaps all this tension was one-sided, and Peter was working himself into a tizzy over a decision that he didn't actually have to make. Perhaps the decision had already been made for him and he could continue to float along, happy and content with Lydia.

"Then what?"

"Then nothing," she whispered, still so close. "Haven't you heard anything I've said? You must be more careful about how you act around me and what you say. You might not understand society and scandal, but I do, and Lydia deserves—"

"Oh, Lydia!" he sighed, unintentionally letting his eyes roll. Lydia was obnoxious to him at the moment. He saw nothing but Charlotte.

"Don't say that. She loves you and you love her." In such a simple statement, Peter saw that she knew. She saw the feelings he had for her, and she was trying to let him down easy.

Boldly, to see what she would say, he challenged, "But maybe—"

"There is no but maybe, Peter!" she cried. "That phrase does not apply to us. There is no but maybe for us, and you would do well to remember that. Lydia deserves that. Think how heartbroken she would be to hear you say 'but maybe' to me!"

But Peter wasn't thinking about Lydia right now. He was thinking about this silly little girl so close to him, this silly little girl who was lying right to his face.

He sat up straighter, leaving even less space between them, and demanded, "Stop lying to me. Don't tell me it's not too late and then tell me there is no but maybe for us."

"Don't twist my words. You know what I meant before—"

"Be honest with me, Charlotte."

"I am, Peter! I'm being as honest as I know how to be."

His glare was fierce as he challenged, "Then tell me we're just friends and _mean it_. Tell me there is no but maybe and mean it." His voice was a low hiss; the fire danced across his features, alive in a way Charlotte had never seen before, their faces inches apart. "Tell me—"

"We're just friends and there is no but maybe!" Charlotte blurted out, her eyes wide with terror.

The second the sentence was out, Peter leaned forward, aiming to crush his lips against hers. Charlotte's reflexes were quick, though, and she turned her head just in time. Peter's lips fell against her jaw. Both remained frozen, eyes closed, hearts racing, the fire dancing around them, taunting them with its warmth.

This was hell. Peter knew it. Charlotte knew it. Both were damned. Both were in hell.

Peter kissed her jaw and kept his head pressed against hers. Charlotte was scared to move, or rather couldn't move. This was it. This was all she could ever have from Peter Pevensie, that kiss on the side of her face and a couple seconds with their heads leaning together, and she felt the world shattering around her once more. Timothy, Ashley, Papa, Jack, Peter, everyone was bound to slip from her grasp.

After a long moment, the longest Charlotte could selfishly allow herself, she stated calmly, eyes still closed, "Lydia believes you are going to propose to her on Christmas. I think you should propose sooner. Tell her you can't wait to have her hand."

Peter's voice cracked traitorously as he whispered, "And if I don't?"

"I'll leave, and you'll never see me or hear from me again."

"So that's it, then. That's—"

"Yes. That's all there is to be had. That's all I have to for you."

Peter pulled away and gave her a hard look, his eyes dark as he insisted, "I don't believe you." She returned his look, searching his face before her own hardened, her lips pursing for a moment.

"We are just friends and there is no but maybe."

A painful pause.

"You're a liar."

"No, Peter. I am doing the right thing for the first time in a long time."

"Which is?" he scoffed.

She smiled, and he could see by the sudden brightness in her eyes that she was thoroughly convinced, "I'm saving you and Lydia both. Let me do that. Consider it . . . consider it my tribute to the High King of Narnia and his lady. My gift to the king and queen." She was laughing now, but it was cruel, taunting laughter. He hated it. It wasn't hers. She was trying to poke at everything that might possibly get him to collapse, but the harder she shoved, the clearer things became in Peter's head.

She jumped to her feet with a relieved energy and bid, "Good night, Peter. I look forward to hearing the announcement."

Peter waited until she was almost to the stairs to call after her, "Do you know what Susan told me in a letter?"

"What did she tell you?"

"She told me that Cair Paravel would be honored to have you, that you would make a fine queen."

Charlotte let out a sharp exhale, a sardonic laugh, "Susan was mistaken."

"Have you _met_ my sister? Susan Pevensie is never wrong."

The laugh Charlotte gave was genuine as she repeated, "Good night, Peter."

"Good night, Charlotte."

The living room was cruelly empty with her gone.

* * *

_Thoughts? Judgments on either Charlotte or Peter? Feelings about Lydia? Love for Jack? I'd love to hear your reactions! :)_


	11. Chapter 11

_AN: I guess I don't really have anything to say. That's rare, huh? lol Just enjoy!_

* * *

**Chapter Eleven**

Susan was clearly nervous, which amused Charlotte to no end. Lucy sat in Charlotte's lap as Lydia picked at Susan's hair, fluffing and smoothing the rolling waves around her fair face, which Charlotte had already made up.

"What are you going to do tonight?" Lucy asked, twisting and threading her fingers through Charlotte's. She knew she was far too old to be sitting in someone's lap like this, especially someone who was but perhaps two inches taller than herself, but she didn't care and Charlotte didn't seem to mind. She just alternately rested her chin on Lucy's shoulder or ran her fingers along Lucy's braid as one would a pretty little doll.

"Well tonight," Charlotte explained, "I'll introduce Su to Lesley and his parents. We're meeting them at the Savoy where they're staying. I suppose we might have some tea before we leave. The opera begins at seven, and then afterwards we'll go somewhere for a late supper. We should perhaps eat some biscuits before we leave," she suddenly thought to suggest to Susan. "After supper, we will either come home or, if Lesley invites us, go to a café for a drink."

"I would rather we just come home," Susan insisted, twisting her hands nervously in her lap. Susan was rarely nervous, and so it delighted Lucy to see her so uncomfortable. Susan herself was running through the many gaffs she could make. Yes, she had been royalty in Narnia, but they had set their own rules there, for the most part. It hadn't bothered her there to be 'the Barbarian Queen,' but here the idea of the Stevens family thinking her anything less than couth terrified her. This was her first involvement with the higher society in London and she certainly didn't want to embarrass her dear friend, who had been so kind as to invite her.

Lucy rolled her eyes, "You _have _to go out, Susan, because I can't."

"I meant I would rather not go out for a drink afterwards."

"Oh, but you must, Susan," Lydia argued. "It is only polite, and besides, Mr. Stevens is a handsome man who I am sure has handsome friends. You can have only one drink and sip it and you will not get drunk. A lady does not become intoxicated in the presence of men, anyway."

Had Charlotte ever felt the need to put up defenses against Lydia, she might at that point have felt some discomfort. But as it were, she only grinned when Lucy's arms tightened around her neck and the younger girl glared at Lydia. Lucy was not a stupid girl and she was fiercely protective of her friends, even unaware as she was of any of the scandal surrounding the American girl.

A knock at the bedroom door carried the expectation of Peter, but it was Edmund who stuck his head in at Lucy's invitation and announced, "Charlie, I got my photograph book!" She clutched Lucy and scooted down the mattress so that Edmund could sit beside them, the large hard-cover book in his lap. Lately he had discovered an interest in photography –the technical aspect of it fascinated him, and so he was attempting to understand the artistic side as well. Charlotte had mentioned Henri Cartier-Bresson as one of her favorites, and Edmund had stepped into a bookstore with Mr. Pevensie and found his latest book for sale, which included some of his photos of Ghandi's funeral which Charlotte had not yet seen. He flipped through the book, Charlie and Lucy leaning over, the younger two asking Charlotte frequent questions about subjects of photographs. She didn't always know the answer, but she certainly knew more than they did, and could answer many of their questions about places in Paris and America that they had only ever heard of.

This was the manner in which Peter found them a short time later when he ventured upstairs to alert the girls that the cab Lesley had sent was waiting for them. It angered him, seeing Lucy and Edmund huddled together with Charlie and Susan only paying half-attention to Lydia now that her work was finished. It wasn't fair. Lydia was his sweetheart. They were supposed to be crowded around her; that's how he had always imagined it. He'd always known it would be difficult to introduce a new person to the Pevensie family –no matter which sibling was bringing their sweetheart home—but Lydia was so sweet and giving and kind that he had assumed it would be an easy assimilation. But then Charlotte had come along and ruined it, ruined _everything_.

Peter could feel his face flushing with the anger he had forced into place after the mortification of the almost-kiss. That had been crossing the line. As soon as Charlotte had left him alone with his thoughts, he'd seen the ugly intentions. He had almost kissed another woman while his own sweetheart was sleeping upstairs. Now he knew for certain he couldn't begrudge Charlotte any of her previous actions, because wasn't he seeing himself how easily it was to slip down that road? Sure, it was easy to judge when you had never yourself been tempted—

But he had resisted, he comforted himself with. They had not actually kissed. And his siblings would learn to accept Lydia –look, even now Susan was thanking Lydia for her help and admiring herself in the mirror. She did look rather glamorous, and Peter wondered if perhaps he should say something about Susan going out with Charlotte and Lesley. After all, it was one thing for Charlotte, who had already allowed herself admission into this world of nightclubs and men, to continue her scandalous lifestyle, but Peter certainly didn't want his sweet sister being dragged down into it. He chanced a glance at Charlotte, who looked as lovely as usual but completely unaware of it. Lucy was wrinkling her dress, sitting on her lap like that, but she didn't seem to care. How stupid, to not care about her appearance before an evening out.

Clearly nothing anyone said or did was going to make Peter lose his abominable mood. He stared at Susan as he snapped, "Your car is here if you're really going."

Lydia flitted to his side and kissed his cheek, crooning, "Oh, he is so sweet, aren't you, Peter darling? So concerned for the safety of your sister. But if there is anyone who can guide her around the pitfalls it is a native herself, is it not?"

Once again, Lucy's eyes narrowed, and the youngest Pevensie wondered if she was being overly sensitive or if everyone else was really just very stupid. She watched suspiciously as Charlotte rose and stepped around Peter to reach for her clutch on the desk –but not just around him, _wide_ around him, as though a bubble encased him and prevented her from coming within three feet of him. For his part, Peter turned his head so that she would not be in his train of sight. Their avoidance of each other was tangible and made Lucy sigh and fall backwards onto the mattress.

Edmund watched her and laughed, "What are you so serious about?"

"I think it really must be silly to be an adult. Do they take all your common sense away when you grow up?"

"It's not that common sense goes away," he argued. "Only you get a very heightened idea of your own importance and think you're far too clever and mature to just take a good long look at yourself. But then, Pete's always been like that, hasn't he?"

"Do we know what's going on for sure?" Lucy asked, pushing herself back up to watch with her brother as Charlotte and Susan wrapped themselves up in scarves and gloves and hats, hiding their fancy evening dresses. Susan was wearing the same gown she had worn for winter-formal, but one would hardly have guessed it had been worn before or was a couple years old once Lydia and Charlotte had finished with her. She looked perfectly in league with the French aristocrat and the American starlet.

Edmund shook his head, "Not a clue. Only that Susan is mad at Peter and Peter is mad at Susan and Charlotte and I guess Charlotte is mad at Peter."

"Is it because Peter and Charlie stayed up late talking?" Lucy asked innocently. Edmund gave her a startled look, but Charlie chose that moment to reach over and kiss Lucy's forehead, "What are you two whispering about? We're leaving now."

In a flurry of hugs and kisses and promises to behave and have fun from Mrs. And Mr. Pevensie respectively, Charlotte and Susan were gone, giggling and holding hands all the way into the cab.

"What stupid little girls," Peter mumbled. Still, he could feel some of the anger dissipating at their departure. It was easier to forget Charlotte when she wasn't close at hand –_easier_, though still not easy. He saw Lydia watch him stare at the closed door and gave her a broad smile, opening his arms for her to collapse against him. This she did, nuzzling her face into his neck.

"They are stupid but they are enamored," she explained, kissing his cheek and leaning back. "And we girls tend to do stupid things when we are enamored."

This was familiar and easy and Peter smiled back at her as he asked, "And are you enamored with me?" Yes, this he could do. It was so simple being with Lydia while Charlotte was gone romancing her movie star boyfriend.

"Peter darling, don't get sappy," Lydia teased, kissing his nose and then twisting out of his grasp. "Are we going to supper now?"

Lydia put as much care into her appearance for their simple supper out on the town as she had into Susan's and Charlotte's for their trip to the opera with the wealthy London elite. Peter waited patiently for her, joking amicably with his father in the living room until Lydia at last descended the stairs, her hair coiled and her smile plastered on.

"Mr. Pevensie, I will steal Peter now, if that is fine with you?" she piped, bobbing her head gracefully.

Mr. Pevensie grinned and nodded, "Of course. You look lovely, Lydia." But the smile wasn't quite in his eyes and Peter could see in his simple bow that Lydia was intangible to his father. Mr. Pevensie approved of her beauty and manners but he would never be able to joke with her the way he did with Charlotte, for fear of breaking her. Charlotte was durable; Lydia was delicate. But women –wives!—were _supposed_ to be dainty. Lydia was certainly that, and it made Peter proud. He kissed her long fingers and led her out the door.

Several of Peter's uni friends that lived in London had rung him to see if he and Lydia would like to dine with them. They met them now in the restaurant of the Lewis Hotel. David was married and brought his wife Carol, but Ralph and Parker were enjoying bachelorhood –until they laid eyes on Lydia. Peter could see the jealous gleam in their eyes throughout supper as Lydia and Carol sat primly by their husbands' sides. Carol was sweet but simple, and next to her Lydia looked like a visiting angel. She spoke at the appropriate times, her tinkling laughter ringing out in response to clever things his friends said. They were practically tripping over themselves to earn a smile or verbal recognition of their witticism, and Peter didn't feel the least tinge of jealousy. He was proud of her social grace and sure of her love and eternally grateful to his friends for reminding him what a gem he had found in Lydia.

Yes, she was wonderful. Peter could see that. She could make him happy and content in a way flighty, passionate Charlotte never would be able to. She was saying something particularly delightful that had everyone at the table enraptured, listening to the chirping lilt of her voice, and Peter leaned closer to her, feeling the cloth bag shift in his vest pocket. He had been afraid to shove it into his pants or jacket pocket lest it fall out, and the thing was worth almost as much as his entire undergraduate education.

Peter was feeling very happy until conversation drifted to cinema, which depressed him again because it made him think of Charlotte and all the hurt she had suffered because of the film industry and its people. Really, was he any better? Getting her all upset as he had and then trying to kiss her --how disrespectful towards her! There he was trying to turn her into a scandalous "other woman" when that was the very reputation she had tried to flee away from. He was an awful idiot.

But then conversation skipped to the future and Peter listened to Lydia detail his plans to become a doctor –she politely didn't mention that her father had already agreed to pay for Peter's med school. Truth be told, Peter wasn't so sure he still wanted to be a doctor. It was a reputable profession, to be sure, but now that he had almost graduated, the idea of diving immediately back into an even more intense study to pursue a profession that would dictate his life was a little less than appealing. But he really wasn't sure what he would rather do instead. He had considered teaching, only in passing, but Lydia had laughed at the idea, saying it wasn't worthy of someone such as him. He knew he could be a good doctor. Lydia's parents supported that, and it would be a way for him to keep Lydia leading the lifestyle she had been raised in –well, perhaps with a bit of help from her parents. Besides, wasn't a doctor what he had wanted to be since he was a small boy?

Yes, Dr. Pevensie would be the pride of his family, he and his beautiful wife, Lydia Pevensie.

After supper, Ralph invited them to a café down the street, but Lydia clutched Peter's arm and pressed, "Peter, darling, I'm quite tired." So Peter apologized and declined the invitation, and he and Lydia strolled away from his friends. Only then did she admit, "It really is quite inappropriate for a lady to go to a café after supper with the men. I don't mind you going, of course, darling, but it would never do for me."

"I rather agree," he laughed, light-headed with anticipation. Dr. and Mrs. Pevensie. They were going to be lovely together. He would make people healthy, and she would attend dinners by his side and visit with the neighbors. They would be happy and wealthy and comfortable. "I wouldn't want you anywhere near any drunk men. They would steal you away from me." She yelped in surprise and giggled as he suddenly wrapped his arm around her waist and spun her around to face the opposite direction, then dragged her south. They were only a short distance from the river, and though she complained of the cold, he pulled her onwards until they stood on the northern banks of the Thames.

"Oh, Peter, do let me stay on the land," she insisted when he made to tug her out onto London Bridge. "It's bitterly cold."

He pouted and pointed, "But look, there's a man playing the violin. You love the violin."

"If we listen, I can hear him from here _and_ keep my nose," she teased, poking him in the chest with one gloved finger. He conceded that he did love her nose an awful lot and what a shame it would be if she lost it. So they stood on the bank, ears straining for the gentle whine of the violin as the moon glinted off the calm black water of the Thames. Lydia closed her eyes and buried her face in Peter's neck, wishing this romantic moment of his would pass and they could go home. She loved romance in the proper time and place, but it was too cold for it right now. Peter, for his part, inhaled deeply of silk and roses and tried to solve the battle in his mind. There were no terms of agreement, though; one side had to win, and had to win fast, or he was going to go bloody mad.

As if sensing the stress radiating from his body, Lydia pressed, "Peter, darling, is everything all right?"

"Of course."

"You are distracted," she observed. She kissed his chin and buried her cold nose in his neck again. "What are you thinking?"

Should he just tell her that he was torn? No, that would be cruel. But perhaps he could suggest they wait a bit longer before thinking of an engagement. He could suggest they put it off until after he finished med school; that would appease her, because money would be tight while he was in school, and that way he could go into the marriage with some stability. But he couldn't very well let her father pay for his schooling if there was even the faintest possibility he would not marry Lydia. No, they needed to marry, and soon. But Lydia had a kind heart; perhaps she would understand his dilemma. He could just—

"Peter, look! It's Charlotte and Susan!" Peter startled and spun to follow Lydia's motioning hand. Sure enough, walking across the bridge were four figures, huddled together, leaning on each other for support through their gales of laughter, which echoed out onto the river. Susan's dark head was on the end, her arm looped through one of Lesley Stevens' while Charlotte took the other and also supported a fourth man, unfamiliar to Peter and Lydia. It was unclear whether the lot were drunk or simply laughing too hard to walk straight, but they certainly appeared to be having a good time. As they neared, Peter pulled Lydia out of the lamplight so they would not be visible, though he continued to watch as Lesley Stevens leaned down and whispered something in Charlotte's ear that made her break out in new laughter. She stumbled and would have tripped had not the fourth man caught her deftly around the waist and spun her around, suddenly dancing forth with her in a quick step that Lesley and Susan had to run to catch up to. The fourth man was blond and unrecognizable in the dark, and so it was easy for Peter, in one silly second, to pretend it was him holding Charlie and spinning her around, making her throw he head back and laugh like that.

And just like that his decision was made. This was nonsense and had gone on long enough. She would understand.

Turning to Lydia, he grabbed her by the upper arms, gave her a gentle kiss on the forehead, and then confessed, "Lydia . . .

"What is it, Peter?" she asked, visibly concerned.

"I . . . I was going to wait until Christmas to ask for your hand, but I cannot wait a moment longer. Will you marry me?"

Lydia froze and watched with wide eyes as Peter tugged the cloth bag out of his pocket and held the ring out to her. She gasped and brought her hand to her mouth, a perfect tableau of a happily surprised young woman.

"Oh Peter!" she cried, suddenly bursting into tears and throwing herself at him. "Oui! Oui! Je me marierai avec toi! Oh, Maman sera si heureuse!"

"I have no idea what you said, but I hope it means yes," he laughed. When she nodded and cried some more, he grasped the opportunity to slip the ring onto her finger. It fit perfectly and looked right at home on her hand, a gaudy diamond for his fair angel.

"Oui! Yes!" she repeated before setting off into more French babble that he couldn't understand about her parents and family and how happy and perfect everything was now. It was some time before she had calmed down enough for him to suggest they take a cab and head home.

The house was silent when they arrived, and Peter insisted they wait until morning to make the announcement, because Lucy and Edmund would not be thrilled about getting woken up.

"All right, but might we sit up and tell Susan and Charlotte when they return?" Lydia asked innocently, already settling herself on the sofa. Peter paled; that was actually the last thing he wanted. But no, this was right and good. He had made the correct decision, and Charlotte would only confirm that for him. So he smiled and nodded and sat beside her, listening to her happy prattle about wedding plans and whether they really had to wait until he finished med school or not. Peter gave simple answers and nodded a lot, not caring too much about the particulars. Lydia's mother would be running the show, at any rate.

The clock ticked on and Peter was just about to admit he was too tired to wait any longer when, sometime around two, a car rolled to a stop outside. Peter sprang from the couch as Lydia pranced to his side, not observing at all that Peter looked anything besides excited to share the news. He looked, if anything, guilty.

Susan and Charlotte's giggles could be heard through the door as they bid the gentlemen goodnight, and Susan fumbled with the key. Finally the door swung open and, with one final round of goodbyes, the girls stumbled inside, Susan first and Charlotte pulling the door closed behind them. Flushed and giggly, and certainly unstable, there was no question now that the girls had imbibed, perhaps too much. A great fear struck Peter's heart that now was not the time at all to share the news of their engagement, when alcohol would keep mental governors from doing their job.

It was too late, though, Lydia had already cried out, "Susan! Charlotte! You must wish us congratulations!"

At their names the girls froze, their arms around each other in the entry way, to gape at Peter and Lydia in the living room. Lydia clutched Peter's arm, vibrating with excited energy.

"Whatever _for_?" Susan asked after a long pause. In response, Lydia merely held her hand out; of course the diamond could be seen from such a distance.

Susan suddenly burst out laughing and, burying her face in Charlotte's neck, giggled, "Carlotta, I forgot to buy _you_ a ring! But I will! And it will be even bigger than that!"

Charlotte's face, though, was not the image of mirth that was Susan's. Instead she stared hard at the ring for a long moment before giving Lydia a warm smile. She turned her face into Susan's and insisted, "Don't tease them, Susan. It is a wonderful thing Peter has done. Why he has saved us all!"

"Saved us all!" Susan repeated. "Saved us all! High King Peter has saved us all from what?"

"Don't you know?" Charlotte demanded, her smile widening and the alcohol apparently regaining control of her person. She had been still and morose for a moment, but now the tipsy glee seemed to have returned. She swung Susan around once and whispered loudly, "Don't you know, Suzie? He has saved us all from the horrible, wicked thought: what if?"

"What if what?" Susan urged.

"What if," Charlotte froze, hers and Susan's foreheads pressed together, "What if we are wrong?"

Peter's heart froze and he thought that, if it were physically possible to drop dead, he would have at that moment. She could be alluding to anything, or nothing at all –she was drunk! But it was just enough to water the seed of doubt that had long since been poking at the surface. What if he had chosen wrong? What if he was wrong to assume he could never be happy with Charlotte, or indeed that he would be _happiest_ with Charlotte? What if she was, right now, daring to think she had been wrong to tell Peter he should ask Lydia to marry him? What if she hadn't meant it at all? He had hoped Charlotte would confirm that he had made the right choice, but she instead had only poked holes in his resolve. And it was too late now! That angered him. It made him hate her for being infuriating and impossible. She had been the one to say he should marry Lydia and he had trusted her advice. He hated her for now making him doubt it.

Lydia crossed her arms and sniffed, "You are both drunk and it is a disgrace!"

"A disgrace!" Susan repeated. "We're a disgrace!"

"No, only I am the disgrace. You are quite good yet, Suzie. Now come, let's away! Congratulations to you both. I wish you all the—" but here she was interrupted because Susan had taken her command to leave quite literally and practically tackled her up the stairs, both laughing the whole way.

There was a long moment of silence in the living room before Peter turned to Lydia, who was clearly fuming. He tried to comfort her, "They're drunk, Lydia. They'll be more receptive—"

"It is a disgrace!" she repeated, throwing her arms into the air. "Women like that should not be allowed in polite company!" Before Peter could process her insult at both his sister and Charlotte, she had fled upstairs to nurse her wounds in the bedroom where Charlotte pretended to sleep soundly, the silvery tear tracks down her cheeks masked by the darkness.

* * *

_Oh, also, before I get any hate mail, lol: keep in mind that a lot of the things Peter thinks are him trying to convince himself of things. So don't be all "Peter would never think that about Charlotte!!!" because yes, he so did. _


	12. Chapter 12

_AN: I know. I know long periods of no updates suck for everyone. You can always check my author profile page to see what's going on, and if you've done so, you'll see that a LOT of bad things happened to me and my family in the past month, and I've been too busy dealing with funerals and medical emergencies and work to be online at all. This chapter, written tonight, is actually the first time I have written ANYTHING, even in my personal diary, since May 31st. The month of July is dedicated entirely to writing projects, though, since I need to get some of these stories finished AND I need to get my creative thesis for my BFA started. This means many more updates to come. This story in particular I'm hoping to have finished by the middle or end of August. There are maybe . . . four or five chapters left? I *think*. We'll see how it all actually plays out, lol._

_ALSO, the wonderful Casimir Paulaski has made a BEAUTIFUL banner for this story. As soon as this chapter is posted, I'll go put a link up to it on my profile page. Definitely use that if you care to do me the favor of spreading word about this story to anyone. I always appreciate new readers! :)_

_All of that said and done, this chapter is scattered and crazy and busy and lots of stuff happens and is revealed and you will basically be running the entire time to keep caught up. So hold on tight, lol.  
_

* * *

**Chapter Twelve**

Glasses clinked as silverware scraped against the good china dishes. Mr. Pevensie tried to hide a burp behind his hand; Mrs. Pevensie cleared her throat and sent him a look. Lucy slurped her milk a bit too loudly and earned a nudge from Susan. Edmund drummed his knuckles against the table but stopped at a death glare from Peter.

Suddenly, Charlotte got the hiccups.

"Excuse me," she mumbled, taking a sip of water. She hiccupped again, snorting water up her nose in the process. Edmund clamped a hand over his mouth to keep from laughing. Lucy's lips twitched, then returned to their downward pull when Lydia frowned at the couple drops of water Charlotte had spilled on the table.

"My apologies," Charlotte added, taking another sip as she dabbed at the table cloth – an embroidered white one Mrs. Pevensie had pulled out for this sudden celebratory dinner. "I get the hiccups sometimes when I—"

"Have too much to drink the night before," Peter interrupted, muttering it a bit more loudly than he had meant to.

"Peter!" Susan hissed, delivering him a rough kick under the table. Unfortunately, her foot glanced off of his and hit Lydia's ankle.

"Oh! What was _that_ for?" she yelped, her hands flying up in surprise. She knocked her glass of water right onto Charlotte's blouse, which instantly threatened transparency.

Charlie, however, seemed oblivious, and suddenly turned an angry glare to Peter, staring right across Lydia's nose, "I am _not_ hungover. I was going to say when I eat carrots."

"That's a bit ridiculous," Edmund snorted. "Though not quite as ridiculous as Peter springing an engagement on—"

"Edmund, mind your manners," Mrs. Pevensie scolded.

Lucy seemed the only one to notice Charlotte's blouse and cried out, "Charlie!" while throwing her marina-sauce covered napkin straight at the American girl's chest in order to conceal her exposed undergarments. Unfortunately, this sent red sauce flying onto Charlotte's face and Lydia's arm.

Peter rolled his eyes, "Right, carrots. Alcohol—"

"Peter, son, it's a good time to hold your tongue," Mr. Pevensie suggested sagely, continuing to cut his pasta.

"Indeed," Susan added, eying him coolly.

Lucy had leapt up with Charlie to begin dabbing at the sauce on her face, but added, "Sorry, Papa, Peter's really not very good at that."

"At least I know when to call it a night," Peter snarked. "And what sorts of people to go gallivanting around the streets of London at night with. Or Paris, for that matter, or Hollywood."

Charlotte suddenly began hiccupping so violently that she turned red in the face and Susan leapt up, afraid for her dear friend's life.

"My blouse is ruined!" Lydia cried, yanking on Peter's arm and pointing to the dots of red sauce on her red top. Peter was too busy glaring at Charlotte and the attention she was receiving from Lucy, Susan, and Mrs. Pevensie.

Edmund leaned across the table to offer his clean napkin to Lydia, but accidentally knocked his class of water into Lydia's lap. He didn't get his mouth shut in time and enough laughter came out to make Lydia yell, "This is not funny, Edmund! That was horrifying of you! How can do you such a thing! My blouse is ruined! My skirt is wet! Someone help _me_."

"Oh dear," Mrs. Pevensie cried helplessly, running around and trying to calm everyone down.

"I don't think she can breathe!" Lucy squeaked, stepping back helplessly as Charlotte began to cough and hiccup simultaneously.

"Well, Peter, aren't you going to give the girl some sugar?" Mr. Pevensie asked, glancing briefly up from his meal. Edmund had offered his napkin to Lydia the second she'd leapt up with water in her lap, but she yanked it from his hand and threw it down on the table.

Peter froze and gave his father a confused look, which only intensified when he clarified, "Charlotte. Lydia has the sugar on her finger, I believe . . ."

"What?"

"All right, I will," Mr. Pevensie shrugged, rising and retrieving the sugar bowl from the cart in the kitchen. He held a spoonful out to Charlotte and encouraged her to swallow it.

As soon as she did so, the hiccups stopped, and she was able to swallow enough water to clear her cough.

She turned to Peter and, pointing her finger, hissed, "You, Peter. I have had enough of your attempts at clever cruelty. If you don't wish to be civil to me, then ignore me. But you are behaving like a petulant child and ruining your own engagement celebratory dinner. Congratulations, Lydia, on your lucky find."

"Hey!" Peter yelled, but before he could even step forward, Edmund had grabbed his arm, as if – as if afraid he would physically lash out at Charlotte. "Don't you go talking to my fiancé like that – don't talk to her at all!"

"You aren't _my _king," Charlotte snorted.

"I wouldn't let your lot into my kingdom," he returned. "Don't need your sort running around dirtying up the place."

"Oh, you are vile—"

"Oh, I'm vile? _I'm_ vile? Why aren't you happy for me, huh, Ms. Daws? Jealous of—"

"PETER!" Susan shrieked.

This time it was Lydia who physically restrained Charlotte, stepping in between the two and facing Peter to snap, "You are embarrassing me very badly. I will go clean up, Peter, and I expect you to be better behaved when I return. This sort of behavior will pass in this household but it will not be accepted when you are introduced to polite society through my family."

"Don't _you_ go nagging me, too!" Peter retaliated before he could stop himself while Mrs. Pevensie huffed indignantly at the slight towards her home.

Lucy's eyes widened and her mouth twitched as she mouthed to Edmund, "Ooooh." Ed let go of Peter and coughed to hide his laughter.

Charlotte and Lydia both fled the dining room to the bedroom upstairs, Mrs. Pevensie following to collect their soiled blouses. Susan glared at Peter and set to cleaning up the spilled dishes while Lucy gathered the napkins to rush to the sink lest the sauce stain. Edmund returned to his seat, as did Mr. Pevensie, and both resumed eating as Peter stood, fuming and confused. Only the Pevensie men remained in the dining room.

Mr. Pevensie shook his head, "It's a shame to see a son of mine spat with his girl like that."

"She needs to get over herself," Peter shot back. "Comes prancing into this house and thinks she's just the bee's knees because she's done a few _movies_—"

Edmund glanced between the two before laughing, "He was talking about your _fiancé_, Pete."

"I—oh, I thought you said—" With an angry growl, his face bright red, Peter turned and stomped up to his room. Mr. Pevensie held up four fingers, then three, then two, one . . . a door slammed.

"So are any of my children not in love with this Charlotte?"

Edmund shrugged, "I only like her."

"Ah. Glad to hear it."

Upstairs, Charlotte burst into tears the moment the bedroom door was closed. She sniffled as she unbuttoned her blouse and slipped it off.

Their backs to each other, Lydia pressed, "Why are you crying?"

"Those . . . those things he said to me! It was just awful, Lydia, wasn't it? I know he is a good man most of the time, but that was just—"

"Did he say something that is not true?"

Charlotte froze, mouth open, and spun to face Lydia. The French girl seemed unconcerned with the slap of her words and began shuffling through the wardrobe for a new blouse.

"What do you—"

"Oh come, Charlotte. You are so sweet now, but you were not before this. I would have liked so very much for you to have changed, but you have not. You are still, what is the word in English . . . a whore, no?"

Charlotte cried out again and remained frozen as Mrs. Pevensie stepped in to steal their blouses. The mother patted her shoulder, assuming her horrified face remained from earlier, and left to allow her to finish dressing.

"What do you—"

"You will say they are just rumors, no? But I know," Lydia insisted, stepping closer, too close for comfort. "Jack Daws runs off with, what do they call it, an Okie whore who is less than half his age – younger than his eldest daughter! So much scandal that you ran from."

"You don't know anything that happened—"

"You are sure of this?" Lydia asked with what was almost a laugh. She leaned in closely and whispered into Charlotte's ear, "My aunt would like her husband back."

Charlotte sat and fortunately landed on the bed. What were the chances? But . . . but Charlotte didn't know whether to continue crying or laugh because what was happening?

The explosion at dinner was not truly surprising to anyone. That it had been her hiccups that finally triggered the explosion was simply the part they were all supposed to laugh about someday. Mr. and Mrs. Pevensie had feigned enthusiasm when Peter had announced his engagement that morning, but his mother's sobbing fit behind her closed bedroom door a few minutes later had set the mood. Ed and Lucy mumbled congratulations but twitched uncomfortably when forced to hug Lydia and welcome her to the family. Lydia had lifted her nose at the now-sober congratulations from Charlotte and Susan, and by lunch it was clear that the couples were at odds with each other, with Edmund and Lucy caught awkwardly in the middle. Though forced together as they spent Christmas Eve day at home, they remained on opposite sides of the room, speaking to each other only when required.

Things had finally come to a head at supper, to no one's surprise. But now, for Charlotte's past to be suddenly shoved beneath her nose in so undeniable a fashion, she didn't know what to make of it all. She was used to bad things, but had settled into a sort of rhythm and understanding of her role in this household. She had thought she was doing the right thing encouraging Peter to propose to Lydia but the actual announcement hurt too much to bear, and now this newest revelation simultaneously reaffirmed her resolve that she had acted correctly and added to her misery.

There was no place for her in this world.

Seeing the utter despair she had finalized in Charlotte only just before they were to leave for a Christmas Eve service, Lydia tapped Charlotte's chin to close her mouth and insisted, "Close your mouth, doll. You will give the wrong idea—or maybe not." She paused, then added, "I will not lose my husband to you. My family will see to it." That said, she left the room.

Charlotte lay on the bed and sobbed, and even Susan was frightened to go into the room, though she did after some time, rubbing Charlotte's back as the broken girl tried to piece things together.

Lydia's aunt. She realized she had never been told Lydia's family name. Of course, even then it wouldn't have mattered. There were many Devereux in the world. And really, she should not be surprised. Really, this was the world doing her a favor. Reminding her why she had no right to be so brokenhearted over Peter's engagement, because she didn't deserve him. Even if he said cruel things to her, she knew it wasn't because he hated her. It was because he was infatuated, intrigued, and in crisis – not in love with her, of course, but infatuated the same way Jack had been. She had already ruined one marriage, and her goal was not to ruin another, no matter how miserable it made her. It was simply the grand irony of life that both possible instances were within one family. She was resisting this time; eventually, Peter would forget his curiosity about her and be happy with Lydia. But the more she resisted, the more was thrown at her.

Fortunately, Charlotte was not given much time to dwell on thoughts of self-loathing. In less than half an hour, Lucy crept in and whispered, scared by the sorrow of the room, "We have to leave now for the service."

"Would it be awful if I just stay here?" Charlotte begged of Susan, hardly rolling over.

"Of course you cannot stay here," Susan retorted, rising and tugging her up. "Peter is being a beast and you can't let him win."

"Besides, this will cheer you up," Lucy insisted.

Charlotte disagreed, but didn't want to ruin things for Lucy and Susan. So she allowed herself to be pulled to her feet and her face powdered, her coat to be wrapped on her, and herself to be led along the sidewalk in betwixt the Pevensies to church. Lydia and Peter walked a few yards behind everyone, Lydia smiling and laughing at a pretend conversation while Peter stared at the ground.

"He _should_ feel awful," Susan muttered, squeezing Charlotte's hand. "I took back my Christmas present to him. So did Lu. We've had enough of the way he treats you. I wish we could exile him from the family. He has no right to treat you like that!"

"You would be surprised," Charlotte sighed, but not loudly enough to be heard.

At the church, Lesley Stevens and his family greeted Susan and Charlotte. Though it was instantly clear to Lesley that Charlotte was not herself, the service was too close to beginning, and so he could only whisper to her, "Meet me afterwards. I have something for you."

Charlotte sat stiffly through the service – which was beautiful but entirely wasted on her. She stared vacantly at the large cross hung above the altar. She rose when it was called for, and sang when it was called for, but remembered nothing. When time was allotted for silent prayer, all Charlie could think was, "I will never hate anyone as much as I hate myself."

Jack Daws' first and only wife was a French actress named Elle Devereux, blond and blue-eyed and a bigger cinema star than Charlotte would ever be. Charlie had played the supporting role beneath Elle's lead in _In Winter_, a movie in which, ironically, she stole the lead character's husband and then walked off into the winter forest to freeze to death in seeking redemption. She had been the sympathetic villain and received such wide acclaim, but from none more than Elle Devereux, who had called her marvelous and introduced her to her director husband, Jack Daws. When Elle had become pregnant with their fourth child, Jack had needed a replacement for her in a film he'd just begun – Elle had been the one to suggest Charlotte.

Their interactions had been harmless at first. Charlotte was not stupid, though she couldn't deny being dumb. When Jack had begun visiting her in her dressing room "just to talk," she knew it was inappropriate. When he began buying her gifts, showering her with compliments, she had been wary. But her career was on the rise and for the first time she felt appreciated and adored – she deserved that, so why did it matter if the adoration was coming from a married man?

Then things happened very quickly. Ashley died, Jack took her to coffee, the next day she was waking up next to Jack and there was no going back. Before she could even approach him about ending the affair, news of the scandal had been unleashed on the movie set, and from there spread like wildfire throughout Hollywood and the rest of the world. Helpless and unable to erase her actions, she had no choice but to trust Jack's declarations of love and assurance that he would make everything work out. Jack told her he had split from his wife a few days before – this Charlotte didn't know was false until the day they left the country, or so she told herself. Would it have changed things? She liked to think that it would have, but who knew? She had felt so entitled at the time, so righteously adored and talked about, that maybe it wouldn't have bothered her at all.

Elle had never contacted her, reacting to the scandal more beautifully and gracefully than Charlotte could ever hope to be. The only time she had seen Elle afterwards was the day they left, the day after Jack had promised to marry her if she would flee to Paris with him. He had picked her up from her apartment, then swung by his own house and told her to wait in the car while he grabbed his bags. This, she later decided, had been intentionally done to hurt his wife – as if enough had not already been done. She'd felt eyes on her in the passenger's seat and glanced up to see Elle looking down at her from an upstairs window. Her face hadn't been angry or upset or condemning, just . . . tired.

Charlotte understood now. It was the weariness of trying to do things right and everything still crashing down around you. It was trying to do what was best for those you loved, but just somehow winding up in a dark and ugly world where everyone was hurting.

She hadn't known for _sure_ that Jack hadn't actually left his wife, but really, she had. Perhaps that was the worst part. She never asked. She heard the same rumors everyone did, that Elle knew about the affair and was trying to make the marriage work, and yet Charlotte had taken the mindset that she would trust Jack to sort it all out and not worry about anything other than satisfying her own needs – for love and acceptance and someone to tell her what she wanted to hear.

The service ended, but Charlotte was unaware until Lesley grabbed her arm and dragged her outside, whispering something to Susan. Once out of the overly warm church, after he had helped her with her coat and scarf, Lesley pulled her to the side of the building and wrapped her in a tight hug. Charlotte just held onto him and sobbed into his neck.

The tears didn't stop for a long while, not until their noses and fingers were numb and her eyelashes were practically frozen shut. Lesley kissed her forehead, then wrapped his arm around her shoulder and encouraged her to stroll with him away from the church and the people milling about socializing.

"Su—"

"I told her I'd take you home," Lesley assured her. "She seemed relieved."

"Susan doesn't handle emotions very well."

"And you do have a lot of emotions."

"Damn them all."

Lesley laughed, "Perhaps, but life would be awfully boring without them." They walked in silence for some time, arms linked, enjoying the crispness of the night air. Finally, as they neared the Pevensie's house, Lesley sighed, "So."

"So . . . you're wanting to know what that was all about."

"Oh, I know what it was all about. I saw that godawful rock on her hand. Boy has terrible taste if you ask me." Charlotte said nothing and Lesley just watched her face for a long pause, her eyes still glassy and staring at the path as they walked down the street. "So I was right?"

"You were right."

"I always am, aren't I? You should have followed my advice."

"Why don't you follow your own advice?"

"My advice doesn't apply to me yet," he pointed out with a laugh. "You've only managed to get me on one date with Susan, and I don't think she even realized it was a date."

"Oh, she did, at least afterwards."

"Oh. Well, anyway, this is about you and that blond dolt. I just think if you had told him, everything would have worked out. Maybe it still would."

"What? So I tell him and . . . and what—"

"Well he does too."

"So then he leaves Lydia and what, I've ruined another marriage – in the same family! Did you know—"

Lesley gave her a startled look, "You didn't know?"

"You did?!"

"I'm sorry," he frowned. "I forget you aren't familiar with European aristocrats. Yes, I knew. But anyway, you really think _any _man who marries a Devereux woman is happy? You'd be doing Peter a favor, really. I wouldn't wish that nasty little princess on anyone."

She snorted and shook her head, "Just like I did Jack a favor, right?"

"Elle and Jack were terrible creatures long before you came into the picture. I know you have this angelic image of Elle Devereux, but she was a monster to work with. Really bullied people."

"But she loved Jack, and even monsters deserve love and happiness and not to have someone else—"

"Run away with the man they love?" Lesley finished for her. He grinned, "You're right. So don't let her."

Charlotte huffed but Lesley only laughed and, getting down on one knee, took her hands in his and insisted, "Charlotte Auburn, I wish to god we loved each other. But we don't, and so all we can do is help each other _find_ love. And I am telling you right now, that little boy was ready to take me out the first time he met me. I wish I had been there to help you before with your brother, and maybe the whole Jack fiasco could have been avoided. But it happened and now you're forcing yourself into a lifetime of penance when you've already paid the price of the mistakes you made."

Hearing voices behind them, they both glanced over their shoulders to see the Pevensies rounding the corner, so he rose and leaned in to finish his lecture, "Stop thinking you deserve to be so miserable and unhappy for the rest of eternity. You aren't _that _important." She cracked a smile as he kissed her cheek and pressed two boxes into her hands. "Give that one to Susan, will you? You know, if it feels right at the time. As for yours . . . open it when you feel like you need to."

"Oh, I didn't get anything—"

"Get me dinner with Susan again. That'll do." The Pevensies were fast approaching, and so he kissed her cheek before hustling off in the opposite direction, calling back, "Now practice saying it!"

"Saying what?" she returned.

"I love you, Charlotte!"

And she laughed, finally smiling as she yelled after him, "I love you, too!" It kept her spirits lifted in amusement and a small grain of hope as she bounced on her feet, waiting for the Pevensies to catch up.

"What a loud scandal," Lydia sniffed once within hearing distance.

"If love is a scandal—" Susan began, while Mr. Pevensie nodded, "Just the sort of scandal this world could use more of."

It was late enough, and the day had been long and trying enough that no one much felt like staying up late. At Lucy's request, Charlotte played a couple songs on the piano while Lydia and Peter glowered in the chair by the fire. Not long after the clock struck ten, though, the exhausted occupants of the household each trekked to their bedroom, those who were on speaking terms hugging and kissing each other goodnight.

Lydia and Charlotte dressed in silence, slipped into bed, and closed their eyes without saying a word. As soon as Lydia's snoring began, though, Charlotte rose and tiptoed downstairs.

They had gone to bed early enough that the fire was still roaring behind the grate, casting a warm, flickering glow around the living room. The baubles on the Christmas tree caught the light and tossed it against the walls in dancing circles, and the tree itself seemed to bend and sway. It had begun to snow again outside, white puffs floating down against the black sky and collecting around the toppled snowguards. The room was almost too warm, but she welcomed the comfort and coziness, her eyes roaming over the dancing shadows on the walls and ceiling. She poured herself a glass of milk and set it close to the hearth so it would warm, then curled up on the rug between the fire and the tree, wrapped in two blankets.

What a perfect place to be. It would make her sad when the tree got taken down. They'd never had a tree growing up, and it would have felt foolish to put a tree up when she was living alone. How nice it would be someday, if she possibly ever had a family of her own, to decorate it as a family and then sit around together on Christmas Eve and read the Christmas story together as the Pevensies had done before bed. Her paltry family traditions couldn't hold a candle to the love and happiness that emanated from all the Pevensie Christmas traditions.

She didn't think she could play the piano quietly enough to not wake anyone, but the record player in the corner could be dialed down. Mr. Pevensie had pulled the Christmas records out shortly after her arrival, and now she selected one for its recording of one of her favorite Christmas songs, "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas." She, Ashley, and Julian had used to go around town singing it at stores to see if anyone would give them hardcandy or oranges. Sometimes it had worked, but probably just because Julian was an awful singer and ruined it, so the people wanted them to be quiet.

With the house otherwise silent, she settled back down, but the stillness threatened to send her back into the dark, tear-ridden place she had been earlier. She caught sight of the small box from Lesley and decided that sure, now was as good a time as any, as she missed her non-existent family and was having to work too hard to not loathe her own existence. She couldn't go to bed anyway. Lydia might kill her in her sleep – or worse, she might not.

The box filled her hands and had been meticulously wrapped in shiny blue paper. Quickly she tugged this off and first pulled out the card, which said simply in Lesley's slanted writing: _Everyone deserves love, from herself and others_. On the back he had drawn a picture of a lion and a lamb snuggled down with each other, fast asleep. She smiled, remembering Lesley's sketches during downtime between filming. He had quite a knack for the arts and had taught her some basics – perhaps that was what had inspired her to give it a shot later.

Wrapped in a layer of black velvet sat a beautiful dark blue bauble for the tree. Some light blue and white had been brushed across the surface, swirling around the smooth ball like waves or the wind. It was beautiful and she rolled it around in her hands, tracing the currents carefully with her fingertips, gentle lest she break it. After appreciating it, she rose to hang it on the tree so it could dangle among its fellow baubles. As she stretched the gold chord to slip it over one of the unburdened pine branches, she noticed it had been personalized. Her name printed in a gold script near the bottom: Charlotte Anne Auburn. She hadn't noticed it a moment before when she had rolled it around her hands, which was strange enough.

She quickly realized however, and it left her standing frozen with the chord still in her fingers, that Lesley didn't know her middle name. She hated it because Anne Auburn was her mother's name, and so had never told a soul. No one knew except her family, and they certainly hadn't had a hand in this.

Leaning in closer to make sure she was reading right, Charlotte also came to the sudden realization that the bauble was no longer opaque. Rather, she could see into it, and the swirls that had looked painted on a moment before suddenly drifted like clouds or some sort of gas rolling around inside a now transparent ball. Still holding the bauble in the air, she stared hard, trying to figure out how the appearance could change so suddenly.

Movement reflected on the glass brought her attention to the shuffling of feet behind her. Had she not been staring so intently into the bauble, perhaps she would not have been so surprised. As it was, however, as soon as Peter's mouth opened, she spun and dropped the ornament.

"Char—" he began, but cut off as the glass hit the edge of a hard gift and shattered, sending small shards of glass flying against her legs. She gasped and quickly knelt, but overbalanced and fell backwards. Her eyes closed at the impact and the sudden stinging of the cuts in her legs.

When she opened her eyes again, Charlotte was no longer in the Pevensie's living room.


	13. Chapter 13

_AN: I know it's been ages since the last update. It's my last semester of college (three lit classes, a thesis paper, a thesis project [a collection of short stories], a boyfriend, a job, plus a couple publication projects) so things are understandably a little hectic. Right now I OUGHT to be writing a paper, my first draft of my thesis, and the last story for my thesis collection . . . but it's my spring break and I am doing my best to update when I can, so I decided to write this instead!_

_Initially this and the next chapter were going to be one chapter, but I really wanted to create a sense of time, and I didn't feel I could do it all justice to cram it into one. That said, I'll really try to get the next chapter up ASAP so you can get the fully journey. :)_

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**Chapter Thirteen**

It was so quiet in the forest. Dry grass poked through a thick coat of dry leaves that crumbled into red and gold shards at the slightest touch. Sunlight filtered through empty branches and splayed across the ground in patterns neither moving nor warm. The bark of the tree against her back was rough and cold to the touch, the tree's roots sticking out of the ground and digging painfully into her back as she lay gazing up at what little of the sharp blue sky she could see. The air carried neither warmth nor sound within reach.

The world felt suspended in time.

Charlotte sat slowly, her face flushed and head spinning. She hadn't fallen and she didn't remember waking up, yet here she lay, undeniably far from the Pevensie's living room. She glanced around for a few minutes, letting her head settle and trying to decipher where she was and what she should be doing.

But of course there was little question as to where she was, because Charlotte knew instantly, knew as though Peter had taken her hand and led her here himself.

She thought about where she _had_ been and what she _had_ been doing. Peter had come in . . . she had dropped the ornament . . .

"Peter?" she called, carefully pushing herself to her feet. How welcome would be his presence in this world of which her knowledge was limited to stories whispered by the firelight and a solitary painting in a gallery. But there was no response to her call. Even birds erupting from a tree at the sudden noise would have given her some small comfort, but there was no one.

"Well I suppose I ought to find Aslan," she mused, hugging her robe tighter around her body. She was in Narnia, and that was that. It was all she could possibly think to do: to search for Aslan and hopefully he could give her some answers, such as what she was doing here and how she could get back.

Or if she should even go back.

But how in the world was she supposed to find Aslan? He might be at Cair Paravel, or there might be somebody there anyway who could help her, but how was one who had never been in a country except at the urging of their imagination supposed to find their way about? If she just started walking she might walk in the opposite way in which she intended and end up in a neighboring country -- perhaps not a friendly one!

"Well calm down," Charlotte ordered herself, the sound of her own voice helping as much as her actual words. "Get your head on straight and think things through. How does one explore?" The final word, like a directing cue, sent her mind spinning back to yet another world she had long ago left behind, that of the fields and dirt roads of Oklahoma where, once upon a time, she had run quite wild with Ashley and Julian. Though the smallest, she'd been the bossiest, and on many occasions led them on long expeditions with a stick held high in her hand and her skirt held around her knees. By the time she was ten, she'd explored as far as one could walk in a day and knew the layout like the freckles spotting the back of her hand: she knew exactly where her family's property ended and how far each of their neighbors' stretched; she knew that if you followed the stream at the edge of the Hollin's yard you'd eventually hit a cool pond that was perfect for summer swimming or fishing so long as you didn't get caught by the Molers, whose land it was on; she knew that if you followed even the slightest slope, you'd be able to see forever in such flat country.

"You used to be the roughest and toughest of country girls," Charlotte teased herself with a short laugh. "So what would be useful now? What do I remember about the layout of Narnia?"

Counting off on her fingers for no reason other than organization, Charlotte instructed herself: first, she should climb a tree and see if there were any rivers around because she would need water and should keep to it, even if it took her the long way. Two, she should keep her eyes open for nuts, berries, or onions as she walked because she was going to get hungry soon and since she wasn't much of a hunter and there wasn't anything alive around to kill, and she'd be terrified of killing a talking animal anyway, she was going to need all the vegetation she could find to keep her strength up. Three, Cair Paravel was far in the East, so once she'd happened upon a body of water, she should follow it East and against the current. The Great River would be her best bet for finding Cair Paravel and she was counting on her ability to recognize it -- it would be the biggest, after all, and have many tributaries. Chances were she would happen upon a tributary first, though, and walking against the current would lead her to the Great River. There was the danger of walking against the current of the Great River and leading herself out of Narnia, but she would just have to cross her fingers and hope for the best.

Of course, what would be easiest was if she happened upon a resident who might be able to give her directions and outfit her in something better than the dressing gown, slippers, and nightdress she was currently wearing. Sticks jabbed her feet as she walked, and the morning dew would soak right through them assuming she spent the night outside. And though the breeze didn't bother her so much as she began walking, it would once she stopped to rest.

She walked for a few minutes to judge the trees and which one might be the best to climb. The one she chose was taller than most of the neighboring trees and had many branches beginning low enough that she wouldn't need a boost up. Worried that her dressing gown would get caught or torn or dirty, she slipped it off and folded it on top of her abandoned slippers.

Then, for the first time since she was twelve, Charlotte climbed a tree. It was much more painful than she remembered; the bark scraped her feet and palms which had become delicate after years of dainty shoes and lotions. Twigs snagged her hair and tugged it from its braid or else aimed for her eyes, which she dodged only to waver unsteadily on her perch. It took more strength than she remembered to reach for a higher branch, test its stability, and then tug herself upwards, her feet searching for the next branch or else scrambling up the rough trunk. Despite the pain, though, Charlotte found that the higher she climbed, the more exhilarating the experience became. By the time she had reached the highest secure branch, she was almost in tears with laughter, her ears and nose pink and her body aching but her spirits soaring. How fun this was! And to think of all those years in which she hadn't climbed a single tree, first because there was too much work to do, then because there were no trees in the city, and then simply because it wasn't fitting for a lady.

"Poor Lydia has probably never climbed a tree in her life," she laughed to the wind, pulling her hair entirely out of the braid and letting it slash around in the stronger wind. The trees had not grown this high where she had grown up in Oklahoma, though of course she had been smaller and so they had seemed then as big to her as this tree did now. But despite the distance to the ground and the way the top branches swayed slightly, and even aware of the fact that, were she to fall, there was no help to come, Charlotte felt perfectly at ease. She let herself be rocked by the branches and closed her eyes, welcoming the slight warmth of the sun and the caresses of the wind. Why did anyone ever choose to live in cities when the trees were _outside_ of them?

The climb had left her thirsty, though, and supper would only sustain her for so long, so she refocused. The sun was behind her and she kept an eye on it as she waited in order to see if it was going up or down. Meanwhile, there were two rivers that she could see which looked about equal distances from her. Behind her, beneath the sun, were nothing but trees as far as she could see. There were more trees to her right and then boulders so large she couldn't see what lay beyond. Both of the rivers looked to lay outside of the forest --that is, she could see flat terrain around them and probably wouldn't have been able to see them at all if they'd been buried in the woods.

After a while longer happily resting at the top, she had decided for sure that the sun was going down behind her. Peter had never mentioned the sun moving a different way here, and so she could only assume that was west.

"That's the way, then," she declared, pointing as though for someone else's benefit. Carefully she picked her way down; it was rather a bit scarier than climbing up and took a good deal longer as she sometimes had to let herself swing down for her feet to reach the next lower branch.

Eventually she reached the ground, though, and was disappointed to find no life had come creeping out in her absence. She slipped her robe and slippers back on and, reiterating the direction, set off.

There were nuts on the ground that she gathered as she walked, but the only berries she could find were small red ones that she didn't know whether to trust or not and so avoided them. She made a basket of her robe and collected as many as she could find until the forest had disappeared behind her. The trees had become skinnier as they thinned out, and she was glad she had climbed when she did, because the branches here didn't seem strong enough to support a squirrel, much less herself. There were more red berries but no nuts.

Onward she walked through a field where spiny weeds scratched her ankles and poked through the gentle fabric of her slippers. The dry grass reached to her knees and snagged at her nightdress and gown. Her eyes were on the lookout for green among the brown, though, and on the occasion she would find such a thing, she would tug it up and smile at the pearly little onion on the bottom. She was proud of herself for guessing the vegetation, or perhaps thankful that it seemed at least similar to home. Of course, she hadn't the faintest idea how she was going to eat the onions since raw they wouldn't be very good and she hadn't anything with or in which to boil them. Still, she collected them, adding them to her apron where the smell soaked in.

"I'm going to smell like an oniony nut," she laughed to herself. Nobody heard it. Still, it wasn't too bothersome, this being on her own. She couldn't remember a time in her life when she had really ever been alone except for that short time in Paris, and even then she had constantly been in cafes or sitting outside. Loneliness had always terrified her, but now she found it liberating. There was no one to boss her around, no one to interrupt, no one even whose needs or opinions she had to take into account. She stopped to rest when she wanted to, pried open a couple nuts with one of the many rocks littering the field when she wanted, but mostly she pressed forward.

The sky was a brilliant orange when at last she reached the river, and though the water was awfully cold, that didn't stop her from yanking off her slippers, laying her robe with its cargo down, and running into the water, her gown held to her thighs. The bottom was covered with smooth pebbles which made it difficult to stand against the strong current if she waded too deeply, so she remained at the edge, sighing as the cold water rubbed away the soreness from her feet and ankles. It was difficult to make out her reflection in the bubbling water, but she could make out the her the redness of her face and the mane of curls framing her face, teased into a frenzy by the wind.

"I do look wild," she laughed. Her heart felt light at the freedom. She drank her fill of the water, which tasted crisp and clean. Timothy had taught her to only ever drink moving water, and that if it tasted funny to spit it out, but this tasted wonderful, and anyway, if she didn't die of poisoning she would die of thirst anyway. But in reality, death seemed impossible here.

With night falling silently around her, Charlotte wandered a bit further until she found where the river, when it was higher, had carved a sand bank, and here she settled herself for good. The stones were too cool on her skin, but the sand wasn't quite as cold and she nestled against the short wall of the bank after staring over it at the setting sun until it was all dark. She ate more nuts, drank more water, and then had no difficulty at all in falling fast asleep. It had been nearly bedtime when she'd come here, after all, and there was nothing like a further afternoon of tree climbing and hiking to wear one out. Besides, what was there to fear? There weren't even any fish in the water, much less any other animals, dangerous or benign, to be seen.

In the morning, Charlotte splashed cool water on her face, ate some of the nuts, redressed, and set off down the river. She wondered if this might not be the Great River itself, since even following the current she was heading East. Her confidence in this was so great that even when the river shifted markedly southward, she continued along it. All day she walked.

About midmorning, she came to a tributary which blocked her path. She had no choice but to swim across the river, and realized she should probably walk along the eastern side anyway. So, since there was no one around, Charlotte slipped all her clothes off, held them above her head, and swam awkwardly across the river with her one arm held high. On the other side, she was too jittery at being completely nude in the open to wait long to slip her nightdress back on. It meant she was damp for the next few hours, which was uncomfortable but what was to be done?

By afternoon, the absolute silence surrounding the cold chatter of the river was beginning to wear on Charlotte. It would have been different, surely, if there were at least birds singing or _something_, but there was nothing. So she sang as she walked, recalling every song she had ever learned to keep her spirits up as the nuts failed to satiate her hunger and her feet and legs really began to complain something fierce. That night she ate some of the onions raw in addition to nuts to see if the change in taste would quiet her stomach, but all that did was make her feel ill and she spent the night restlessly tossing and turning.

The next day she happened upon a fruit tree. She spent the better part of the morning smelling and scrutinizing the fruit in an attempt to sniff out if it was edible or not. They were small reddish-purple fruits, sort of like plums but smaller, lighter in color, and with larger pits. Finally, on the verge of tears at the thought of eating a single more nut, she fell upon the fruits and gobbled as many down as her stomach could hold. She rested for a while, felt no ill effects, and so decided she would rather be full than warm. Her dressing gown was dedicated entirely now to carrying the rest of the nuts and as many of the fruits as she could carry.

This sustained her for the next two days of walking, but by the third day she was so sick at her stomach from too much sweet fruit that she covered hardly any ground and spent most of the day lying by the river, her voice too sore to sing any more songs. She watched the clouds, listened to the river, and wished desperately that she had just one companion. Even Peter would be better than having no one, though she suspected Lucy and Edmund would probably the best companions. Susan she loved, of course, but it was difficult to imagine Susan being in her element outside of the city.

When Charlotte had decided she could eat no more of the fruits -- and they were going soft and mushy, besides -- she began tugging up any new sort of shoot she passed, and in this way found a sort of small round potato. They were too hard to eat raw, but that night she built a cage for them out of stones in the water, and by the time she had woken in the morning they were soft enough to eat, though they tasted like dirt and grass.

The following day, she came across her first signs of active life: fish! At first the idea of eating one horrified her, but her hunger got the best of her and she decided that if she could only catch one, she would try to speak with it before she ate it. If it talked, perhaps it could let her know she was going in the right direction. Otherwise, she would once again call upon the country girl she had once been, who had roasted snakes and squirrels and gutted fish without the slightest grimace.

However, catching fish didn't prove nearly as easy as it was represented in the books and films, and though Charlotte spent the better part of a day trying everything from building a trap with rocks grabbing at them with her bare hands, it accomplished nothing except making her frustrated, hungry, and eventually putting her in tears.

"I'm tired of being alone," she sighed as she curled into a ball to sleep that night. The river had turned northward and the nights were growing cooler so that she frequently awoke in the dark shivering and frightened. She slept restlessly, dreaming she heard voices only to wake and find no one. She couldn't remember how many days she had now been in Narnia.

The next morning there were birds, but when she called to them they didn't respond, and they didn't sing. They just flitted among the branches of the trees and fled when she yelled greetings to them. Even when she begged them not to go, they ignored her pleas and she thus decided they must not be talking animals -- or if they were, they were very rude. The knowledge that now there were animals around her, though, offered no comfort and actually put her nerves more on edge. If there were birds, might there not be larger predators? And predators of the non-talking variety, maybe, which would probably feast upon her without reserve.

Gone was any remnant of peace Charlotte had felt before. Hours and days rolled together until Charlotte could hardly tell what was up anymore. Her feet had given up on complaining and now were forever numb, and her legs stumbled along without any real commitment to their steps. Her hair had tangled and matted itself to her neck and shoulders no matter how many dips in the river she took; her nightdress was torn and filthy; she was always hungry and tired and, above everything, lonely. She had even given up talking to herself because the sound of her own voice only annoyed her. She was sick of herself. She wanted just one friendly face to talk to, one night of sleeping in a soft warm bed, one good meal without a single nut or fruit or potato, one good wash with even the roughest soap. How nice it would be to brush her hair! If only she had ever mastered the ability of making a fire -- Ashley could do it just by rubbing two sticks together, but try as she might, all she did was rub her hands raw.

And then, as though her wish itself had sparked it, Charlotte saw a warm glow emitting from the trees to her left. With the twisting of the river, she had once again been walking on the left bank of the river, and had just that morning come across yet another wood, though she was too disheartened to explore for some new sort of tasteless vegetable or disgustingly sweet fruit.

But this glow was different and attracted her like the coldest of moths to the warmest of candles. Without a second thought, she abandoned the river and ran through the trees toward the glow. It wasn't a mirage -- there was an actual fire! The forest itself wasn't aflame, as she had momentarily wondered, but an actual campfire was burning, crackling, dancing in a stone pit.

Charlotte collapsed on the ground inches away and thrust her fingers and toes towards it, just out of reach of the licking flames. She sighed and closed her eyes, almost sobbing to as warmth crept back into her bones. Hunger and exhaustion took the backseat as she felt herself melt into the ground. She wanted to hug the fire, hold it close, whisper love to it. Had she ever been so glad for warmth? Had she ever been so cold before?

Finally, once she trusted the fire not to disappear when she opened her eyes, she did so.

A face grinned back at her from the flames and greeted, "Hello."


	14. Chapter 14

_AN: For those of you not reading my other stories or profile, it's been a super crappy six months for me, hence the lack in updates. Fortunately, my stepdad and sister-in-law are both doing well on chemo so far, and my mom's preliminary biopsy came back negative. Anyway, I'm trying to get back to writing a lot now, but I'm also having to look for a second job because my student loans mean I now owe $400 in bills a month MORE than I make. Stupid, indeed. So we'll see! Anyway, this chapter is half the length of a normal chapter, but that's just what was needed. Chapters going forward will be back to their normal length. :)_

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**Chapter Fourteen**_  
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The thing in the flames was difficult to describe. He - for he seemed like a he - didn't seem to hold any solid shape, but the very edges of his body seemed to dance and flicker with the flames that engulfed him. His mouth was wide and flat, his eyes spaced far apart and a dark, glowing red. He reminded Charlotte simultaneously of a large lizard and a giant man, but how he could be both was beyond her. Her eyes couldn't follow his form long enough to decide, or even to judge where he ended and the fire began.

"Who are you? _What _are you?" she finally asked. It was difficult to judge emotion from a pair of eyes and wide mouth, but he seemed to be contemplating her just as closely.

"I think," he returned, "the better question is: who are _you_, and why are _you_ causing such a disruption in Narnia?"

"A disruption! I haven't seen anyone _to_ disrupt," she defended, her cheeks reddening at the accusation. "Why, I've done nothing but wander around in absolute isolation for who knows how long now. I only have seen a few birds and fish, and only in the last day, and they've all ignored or fled-"

The mouth interrupted, a wide flat tongue waving as he insisted, "Exactly. The Narnians have been fleeing from you like birds before the storm. They fear you in a way not many are feared."

"But why? I'm not that scary at all. I'm certainly not here to hurt anyone! Why would anyone fear me?"

"Why indeed?" the creature asked, seeming to lean out of the flames and peer out at her. "It's undoubtedly the mark, only it's not obvious just by looking at you how you've come by it?"

"What mark?"

"Why that mark, there on your forehead," the creature answered, his hand reaching from the flames to point. His fingers were short and stubby, his palm thick.

Charlotte only glanced at his hand, though, as her own shot to her forehead, feeling for any disturbance on her skin. There was nothing; just her creased brow, probably reddened from the sun and a bit sticky with sweat.

"I haven't a mark," she insisted. "What sort of mark? You mean that I'm sunburned?"

The creature laughed, a biting laugh that made Charlotte feel very small as he snorted, "A sunburn! You think Narnians would flee a sunburned little daughter of Eve? You must be rather stupid for your kind. No, it is a mark of another sort."

"What sort?"

"You are boring me," he sighed, melting back into the flames. "You obviously don't know anything and are not worth my time. Why, it's _the_ mark."

"_The _mark?" Charlotte repeated, feeling none the wiser.

"Yes. Well, perhaps, have you murdered someone? Maybe a family member-"

"What! Of course I haven't murdered anyone," Charlotte retorted, rather offended even at just the question. This gave her a bit more confidence, so she added, "And anyway, who are _you_, you never told me? Why aren't you fleeing me if I've got some evil mark on my forehead?"

"I, Lady Charlotte, am not afraid of the mark. I am not like these wilting-flower Narnians. I pity you, in fact. You have been alone for a long time, haven't you?"

It was at that point that Charlotte promptly burst into tears. Collapsing to the ground, she folded into her lap and covered her face with her hands to sob. This momentarily stunned the man in the fire into silence and Charlotte was let to cry without interruption for several minutes.

Finally the creature prodded, "How long, how long have you been alone, Lady Charlotte?"

"It feels like weeks-"

"No, how _long _have you been _alone_," he reiterated, his entire upper body leaning from the flames. Through Charlotte's tear-blurred vision, he looked so much like a lizard that she blinked quickly several times to clear her eyes and reassure herself he wasn't, but he was back in the fire, repeating his question, "How long have you felt alone?"

"I . . . almost forever," she admitted softly. "Almost all the time since I left my family in California. Sometimes I feel less alone . . ."

"But then . . ." he encouraged, his smile widening.

"But then I go back to feeling alone," she finished.

"Yes," he whispered, settling down in the flame so that they were on eye-level with each other again. "Yes, you have borne that mark a long time, it seems. You must be so tired, sad little daughter of eve, sad little girl. It is not fair to make a little girl bear so much."

"How do I get rid of it, this mark?" Charlotte asked after a beat of silence had dried her tears and left her feeling only small and exhausted. "How did I even get it? Why? What does it . . . look like? How come I can't see it?"

The man grinned, "So many questions, dear one. You cannot see it because you bear it and we can never see our own faults, can we? You cannot get rid of it, not ever, and that is because _he_ gave it to you."

"Who?" The man just gave her a steady look. "Not Aslan! He's only good-"

"Not him," the man interrupted. "But his father."

A rumbling in the forest that Charlotte had not even been aware of suddenly died out, and the silence made her glance around anxiously. Silence was always so much more noticeable than noise; it felt like the entire woods had recoiled from her and this creature.

"Why?" she pressed, sitting up a little straighter. "Why would Aslan's father mark me? I'm just a-"

The creature laughed, "Oh. Oh, we are never _just _anything, not _just _girls or _just _boys or _just _creatures. And he has marked you, my dear, to be alone."

"But-"

"No use arguing with it. His decision is made and cannot be reversed. You have no choice but to be forever alone . . . or . . ." He disappeared until only his eyes showed, then suddenly leaned forward out of the fire once it was clear he had her undivided attention. "Or, you could join Us who are also alone."

"You are marked?"

"Oh, no, I quite choose to be alone. Some of us do, some of us don't. If you would like, you may join us. You are not so boring as I first thought, and anyway, you are quite pretty." He hesitated for a moment as though rethinking his works, but then with a great shake of his vague head, extended the same stubby hand out from the flames. Though he held it steadily, confidently, the edges of his fingers wavered like the fire and Charlotte didn't know that she could touch them without getting burned. Seeing her deliberation, his grinned widened to its largest yet as he assured her, "You will be all right. You won't be burned. And it is better than being alone, isn't it?"

Charlotte glanced around. The forest remained silent and cold to her. So she made her decision and tentatively reached her hand out to the creatures. Just as it got near, he snatched her wrist. She cried out in pain at the burning sensation in her arm as he yanked her forward and into the fire where her eyes closed and she fell.

For how long she fell was impossible to determine. Opening or closing her eyes didn't change a thing, and though she grappled with one hand and her legs for anything to stop the downward plummet, still her other wrist was held and burned and pulled.

At long last, after what felt like days or years, Charlotte landed on her stomach with a thud, the wind rushing from her lungs. She curled up and gasped on the floor, clutching her burnt wrist to her body. There was light here, though, coming from the long tracks of fire that ran here and there all around the stone cavern. The fire frequently crossed the footpaths, as though alive itself. Her eyes rolled to take in as much as she could until her body finally calmed.

Turning to the creature who had brought her here, who had remained silently watching her, she yelled, "You lied!" Her throat was raw and the words came out scratchy and soft, but they were enough to make the creatures flame flicker backwards a little, as though she had attempted to blow out a candle. When he didn't answer, she looked around again and asked with no small amount of fear, "Is this . . . is this hell?"

"Hell?" he repeated, his fire oozing closer. "This is not hell. This is the lair of the salamanders." The word instantly brought to mind the amphibious creatures Charlotte and her brothers used to pull from the creeks and keep in jars until one of the older girls found them (inevitably in their bed . . .) and made them throw them out. This was clearly a different sort of salamander, however, and Charlotte couldn't help but long for the former, even if it meant being back in Oklahoma.

Charlotte didn't know where to begin with her questions. She felt a deep sense of regret about this whole business, but remained passively quiet as the creature beckoned for her to follow. Still in tears over her wrist, which stung and was beginning to bubble, Charlotte glanced miserably from side to side, hardly noticing the dozens of red and black eyes that stared at her, that filled in behind her so that she walked before a wall of crackling fire.

Without even understanding how it happened, Charlotte found herself suddenly enclosed in a cage constructed of fire bars. Whether by magic or her own wandering mind, she startled to attention only a moment before stepping face first into one of the glowing walls. Quickly spinning, she was faced with another fire wall, boxed in on all sides with just enough room to curl up on the floor in a ball as she did.

"What is this?" a new creature asked, one that Charlotte didn't even have the heart to look up at. She moaned for her own stupidity and pressed her face against the warm stone of the floor as silent tears snaked across her cheeks and off her nose.

The salamander that had brought her, his voice slightly higher than the others, insisted, "She came on her own free will! She will have to tell you that's the truth. I did not force her!"

"Very well," the first voice replied. "Very, very well. Now raise the cage so that we might all see our prize. Oh, how low the sons of men have fallen that we may keep one as our pet!" With a splitting of rock and hissing of fire, the ground beneath the cage raised until Charlotte was in the air a good forty feet, no longer caged but just as trapped. She lay on her back, staring at the black void of the ceiling, wondering how far beneath the bowels of the earth she was, wondering how long she could possibly survive in such an environment, wondering if this was really what she deserved.


	15. Chapter 15

_I know we all thought this would never get updated, right? But we were all wrong! I'm in it to win it and have the entire rest of the story plotted out. Charlie will be spending a bit more time in Narnia than I'd initially planned, but I think that's okay. Life has settled down a bit for me. I'm currently unemployed and desperately needing a job, but my mom and sister are done with their cancer stuff and my stepdad's doing okay on chemo and so life is sort of putting itself back together, I think. I hope, at least, haha! Thanks to everyone who has sent me encouraging emails, both about family stuff and about this story. I can't let you guys down this far in, right?_

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**Chapter Fifteen**

For a million hours Charlotte cooked in the cavern - or so it felt. The heat made her drowsy and lethargic, the warm glow from below hurt her eyes when she peered over the edge. At first there was only silence punctuated by the popping and crackling of the liquid fire oozing around the bottom of the rock column. Occasionally she became aware of a hissing, the sibilant language of the salamanders barely reaching her ears as they would temporarily surface to converse.

For a million hours Charlotte lay limply, silently, growing hungrier and thirstier and more listless. The growling in her stomach was bad but the parchedness was far worse. The heat made her sweat and pant and in no time at all her lips had blistered and split, her tongue shriveled in her sandpaper mouth, and her eyes ached in their sockets.

"Aslan," she sighed. "This was not how I wanted to die." Sometimes she'd find the energy to roll over, temporarily relieving some of her body from the heat. Her feet fell asleep first, and then her hands, and finally her ears began to tingle.

"What have I done?" she coughed, feeling her body melt around her. How lovely that would be, for her body to become a nice cool puddle of liquid that would then almost instantly evaporate and rise to the dirt above her head. Even as she looked up, a few handfuls floated down to her face and she couldn't find the energy to brush them off. A gradual thumping had begun during the millionth hour, a drum rolling to the hour of death.

"This is not how I wanted to die," Charlie croaked out again, finding her last ounce of strength was just enough to roll her body to the edge. There she teetered, the billowing heat rising up like a balloon beneath her body, holding her onto the platform. The drumming became louder in her ears. The entire world felt like it was shaking, blowing up, collapsing around her. Small explosions of color in her eyes held off the approaching blackness for as long as they could.

With a final shove, Charlotte was off of the platform, falling, her hair streaking the air behind her like a flame in and of itself. Her body went limp and she closed her eyes, ready to no longer be so thirsty.

Charlotte's body was snatched from the air only a moment before she hit the flames - in fact, the very ends of her hair were singed as she was carried inches above the surface of the molten fire. But Charlotte's vision had already gone black and she was only vaguely aware of this sensation, this freedom of flying.

_ What a relief_, her heart thought, _to be rid of it all._

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There was a beat, a heartbeat perhaps. For some time, all that Charlotte knew existed was this beat. What it her own heartbeat? Was this the afterlife eternity - nothingness and the beating of her own dead heart? But no, because eventually she noticed the sound of her heartbeat alongside the beat, quicker, then slower, then quicker again. She became aware of the pumping of blood in her temples, then her neck, and then the rise and fall of her own chest. It felt like something heavy pressed on her chest, but something cool and light rested on her arms and ankles.

The distant beating was no longer just a beat, but punctuated with a _ch-ch-ch _sound, a tambourine perhaps. A flute trilled and something that sounded similar to bagpipes but a tad less whiny carried the melody.

Pretty certain at this point that she wasn't dead, Charlotte opened her eyes but immediately squeezed them shut as the world dipped and spun. Sudden action to either side of her, muted voices, and a damp cloth on her forehead helped Charlotte ground herself, and after a few minutes she tried again, this time sitting up as she opened her eyes.

A fox was inspecting her ankles. Of course. Her little black paws spread some sort of goop over the exposed flesh and Charlotte shivered, feeling the cold of it sink deep into her bones. Charlotte just stared, because it was one thing to be told that animals could talk and move almost humanlike, but it was an entirely different thing to see this behavior in action.

"Here, little one, let me brush that gorgeous hair of yours," a second fox offered. Charlotte didn't see her before she felt the weight on the bed behind her, and then a brush began working its way through her tangled hair. "It's such a lovely color. Truly beautiful."

"Oh, stop with your self flattery, Camille," the fox at Charlotte's ankles insisted. She laughed, Charlotte thought - a joyful barking. Seeing Charlotte's confusion and mistaking it for confusion about the joke, this first fox explained, "It's the same color, you see. Your hair and our fur, it's very similar. You must be considered very beautiful where you come from-"

A voice from the doorway bellowed unnecessarily loudly, "If the visitor is awake, we should move, as it's just after daybreak."

"Oh, but she hasn't even eaten yet," Camille insisted. "Let her eat-"

"Our location is known and to remain would be foolish," the creature retorted, then disappeared.

"What sort of animal was that?" Charlotte asked, her first time speaking. Her voice was gravelly and it hurt her throat to speak. Somehow she found it in her to be curious when really she just wanted to drift back to sleep. Both foxes thrust glasses of liquids at her, then gave their barking laughs again, waving their paws at each other for thinking so alike.

"Anyway, dear, that was a capybara. They aren't native to Narnia, by any means, but they've migrated here from the south."

"Archenland?"

"That's right. Have you been there? Come, little one, up up. Let's get you dressed so we can move. We'll get food for you on the road."

Charlotte had many questions but none of the answers seemed that important. Where they were didn't matter because they were leaving. Where they were going didn't matter because she had nowhere else to go. Where this dress they were helping her ease over her head had come from didn't matter, either. The blue fabric clung to her a bit loosely, soft against her skin, plain but with just the faintest shine when the candlelight hit it just so. It trailed several inches past her feet, though, which would make walking hard.

"There. Ivy will be able to hem that right up once we get settled tonight."

Charlotte nodded absent-mindedly, gingerly touching the red welt on her wrist where the salamander had grabbed her. It no longer hurt, which she guessed had something to do with the thick goop coated smeared across it. The medicine was clear with small bits of something green. The skin cooled everywhere the goop touched. But again, what it was didn't matter because at least it didn't hurt. There were a dozen small burns on her arms and legs, but she wasn't sure when she'd gotten them. It didn't matter.

"Georgia, be a dear and grab that basket. It's got some food in it." Charlotte was gently pushed towards the door, but felt her legs weaken with only a few steps. She would have sunk to the floor had not the suddenly-reappearing capybara braced her stomach.

"No good, no good at all! We shall have to call a transport and that will take ages!" he cried, throwing his arms up in frustration as soon as Georgia and Camille had taken Charlotte from him. He stomped off. In less than two minutes, though, "transport" had arrived and Georgia and Camille eased Charlotte out the door.

They had been inside a tree, one of a hundred pressed together in this dense forest. Animals poured from other trunks, bags slung over their shoulders as they fell into a parade. It must have been a parade, or else this was the worst evacuation Charlotte had ever heard of, because the drums and tambourine she'd heard early were leading the procession, growing fainter as they marched into the distance.

"All right, up you go," one of the foxes -for they really were identical, so Charlotte couldn't tell which was whom - encouraged, easing Charlotte gently towards a dark, very large centaur. Charlotte had of course never seen one before, and yet something in the way he stood let her know right away that this whole situation had him disgruntled. She vaguely remembered Peter saying they hated being ridden, that they felt themselves too good to serve as beasts of burden or transportation. Surely there was a horse-

"That's enough out of you, Krikorian," the capybara snapped, hitting him on the rear. The centaur turned a murderous look to him, which was enough to make the capybara yell something about hurrying it up before scurrying off. Georgia and Camille helped Charlotte mount the centaur's back, ignoring his huffs of disgust.

"I'm sorry if I'm too heavy," Charlotte offered. She felt she needed to apologize for _something _but that it really wasn't fair to apologize for being too weak to walk a great distance.

"If she can mount, she can walk," Krikorian grumbled, but Georgia or Camille both barked something at him to hush. With a sigh, he rose and took off at a trot for the parade, leaving Charlotte to quickly grab onto his shoulders, feeling awfully uncomfortable about it.

Once in line, Krikorian settled into a gloomy acceptance of his role as transport and silently marched, his chin held defensively in the air. Charlotte resisted the urge to untangle his matted hair, and instead began to dig through the basket of food the foxes handed her. Her stomach was silent until she took the first bite, and then it erupted in an angry, noisy growl reminding her of just how long it had gone without sustenance. She didn't bother breaking off pieces of the large cheese block, just took big bites from the corners. Her lips stung and small dots of blood were left on the cheese from her parched lips. She shoved two, three crackers in her mouth at a time and didn't wait until she'd swallowed before popping in grapes and some strange small green fruit. In no time at all she'd emptied out the whole basket and relished in the stomachache that followed.

A sleepiness overcame Charlotte, but on the back of a grumpy centaur was no place for a nap, so she glanced around at the rest of their parade go-ers to keep herself awake. She'd been as prepared as an individual could be, but it was still surreal to see this hoard of animals trundling along together, animals that back in England would have fought or eaten or ignored each other at best.

Georgia and Camille kept pace on either side of Krikorian, and it was to her fox caretakers that Charlotte asked, "Are we going to Cair Paravel? Did Prince - or, well, King Caspian, I suppose - did he finish rebuilding it?"

"We are indeed going to Cair Paravel, but it was rebuilt a long time ago. Did you know King Caspian the Tenth?" the fox on the right, Camille, asked. "It would not be the first time a son or daughter of Eve visited for a second time-"

"No," Charlotte interrupted. "I'm afraid I didn't know him, though I've heard good things. Peter said he would make a wonderful leader, maybe even better than he himself."

This time it was the fox on the left who interrupted, "You don't mean High King Peter, by any chance? Not High King Peter the Magnificent."

"That's quite a title." Charlotte tried to think of him as _the Magnificent_. She thought he was grand but she was also aware he was rather thick-headed and stubborn and, well, was anyone magnificent in their twenties? She smiled at the memory of him stealing cookies from the plate, which was certainly not royally magnificent!

"He's your friend?" Georgia pressed gently, sharing an excited look with her sister.

"Well, he and I . . . are . . . I suppose you could say we're friends . . ." Charlotte's hesitation conveyed the opposite of what she meant to convey, however, and the fox sisters barked joyfully to each other. It wasn't just any daughter of Eve that had been clutched from the very brink of death in the Salamander's layer. Why, it was High King Peter's _lady_ friend!

"Your name, lady?" Camille or Georgia asked. Charlotte didn't miss the appended title of respect.

"Charlotte. Or Charlie for short."

Suddenly Krikorian's voice rang out as he began plowing his way through the ranks of animals, waving his arms to motion them to move, bellowing, "Make way, make way for High King Peter's Lady! Make way!" Charlotte hadn't even realized he'd been listening!

Her face turned bright red as she insisted, "Oh, no! That's not it at all! We're just- we aren't married, and I'm not exactly his-"

"Come now, lady," Georgia insisted, leaping to keep up with Krikorian's hastened steps. "You needn't mince words here. We saw how your eyes lit up! We understand everything. We must treat you with the respect you deserve. High King Peter would want it so, don't you think?"

Were they right? Had her eyes lit up? Surely not. It was nothing more than the relief of having a shared connection, of knowing she could drop a name that would entitle her to being well taken care of. She couldn't let them think that she and Peter were, well, _intimate._

But then, how much harm was there really in letting them think what they would? Peter would never be back in Narnia; he said Aslan had told him as much. And she wasn't _lying_. She was just . . . omitting some things. Letting people fill in the details for themselves.

Starting over. Truly and entirely starting over. It sounded wonderful, to be among people who only could know as much as she said about herself. Here she could be whomever she wanted to be - in a way, truer to herself than she'd ever been in the real world. In this strange manner, she could have Peter without actually _having_ him. Nobody would get hurt if she just pretended. In fact, everyone would be better off. She would never have to pretend she didn't feel anything for Peter, but that awful girl could keep the real Peter, who probably deserved her anyway.

Charlotte decided to stop worrying so much about what was real and what was only pretend.

So she settled back and let Krikorian proudly carry her to the front of the parade, where she belonged.

* * *

Cair Paravel was even more magnificent than she had expected. The painting in the museum and the details given by Peter, these were all outdated. The castle grounds had expanded and been embellished, she could tell having never even been here before. Yet she recognized instantly that the throne room and great hall had been rebuilt almost identical to the plans from Peter's day. Instead of four thrones, though, there stood only one, a lovely marble creation with soft blue and silver cushioning. Even lovelier was the girl who sat atop it.

Her hair was long and so blond as to be almost silver. It certainly shone like silver in the flickering candlelight attempting to compensate for the decreasing sunlight outside. Her round, delicate face peeked out from between the curtains of curls, her blue eyes startlingly dark and her soft pink lips curved upward into a smile. She rose when they bowed, as though impatient for the formalities to be passed, and Charlie saw that her long curls extended almost to the floor. They swished side to side as she took several steps forward to balance on her toes at the edge of the dais where the throne sat.

"Lady Charlotte," the girl grinned. "It's wonderful to see you looking so well."

Charlie felt her face flush with embarrassment. She didn't know quite how the queen knew her name, since she hadn't heard any introduced, nor did she know how to reply.

"Thank you, your majesty," she stammered back, curtsying again.

The queen's laughter was light and chirpy like sweet little bird as she plunged from the dais and grasped Charlie's two hands in her own.

"Honestly, Lady Charlotte, you mustn't joke like that! Imagine, _you_ calling _me_ your majesty!" The queen glanced around at the people and animals gathered in the throne room. They laughed with her, though this only confused Charlotte more. The queen kissed her on the cheek as though they were old friends and insisted, "You must call me simply Mistiana and nothing else. From one queen to another-"

"Oh, but I'm no queen!" Charlie gasped, shaking her head emphatically. "I'm only-"

"Semantics, Charlotte. Only a matter of time and you will be one of the highest queens. Married to High King Peter. Imagine!" Mistiana sighed. Charlie couldn't help but think that she was rather bubbly and silly for a queen, but she didn't say this. After all, if Lucy had been a queen and Peter had been a High King, royalty must be handled a bit differently here than in Europe. So she kept quiet and forced a smile. How pathetic was it to lie about whether you were going to marry someone? Perhaps it would be better to correct this whole thing . . .

"Come, we have _much_ to talk about," Mistiana continued. She motioned to everyone present that they were dismissed and asked to be alerted when other "units" returned. She then led Charlotte from the hall to one of the many verandas that looked out over the sea.

Charlotte's arm fell from Mistiana's as she stepped quickly to the railing and leaned against it. The ocean was beautiful. For a moment thoughts of Peter and Narnia and the whole situation fled and she thought only of the beautiful sea. A salty breeze twisted her hair into her mouth, which ruined the moment a bit but made her laugh. After traveling all day and then such a rushed, odd introduction to the queen, the peace was welcome. The sun reflected on the water, a shimmering expanse of orange and red broken only by the occasional white cap and small dark bumps in the water.

"Whales," Mistiana explained. "They're headed back north after the winter."

"Do they talk?" Mistiana answered that they didn't and again offered her arm to Charlotte. "Excuse me, but what year is it? What's the world like right now? I'm afraid I know where I am but now when or why."

"2402 is the year. I'm Queen Mistiana, the only child of King Rilian, the son of King Caspian the Tenth," the queen explained. She led Charlotte slowly along the outer walk and down to a lower veranda that was beautifully and intentionally overgrown with flowers.

"He married a star, didn't he? King Caspian did? Peter told me that but it never quite made sense. How can a star be a person?"

Mistiana giggled, a sound like the tinkling of bells, but continued to answer her earlier questions, "The world right now is at peace. My father died only a few years ago, but since then life has been joyful and wonderful except for a couple skirmishes here and there. The salamanders are our only real concern right now - I'm sorry, I hope I haven't spoken too soon." Even as she said this she gently took Charlie's hands and turned them over, examining the burns on her wrist and arms. Charlie had almost forgotten all about her time with the salamanders until just now. The memories made her frown and she felt a heaviness creeping across her shoulders.

"How was I rescued?" she asked, trying to power through the memory.

"A raid," Mistiana explained. "We didn't receive word that a human had been captured until after the raid had finished. We sent word to the warriors but you had already been delivered to a guard and were on your way here."

"So it was just a coincidence?" Charlie pressed. The memory came to her fuzzy and indistinct, but she could at least remember that she had rolled herself off the platform serving as her prison. She had meant to end it all and . . . something had grabbed her, she thought, or maybe caught her. But had a perfectly timed coincidence saved her life?  
Mistiana pressed a delicate kiss to Charlie's wrist and insisted, "There are no coincidences." The burns momentarily disappeared where her lips had touched before turning red again, but at least they weren't hurting.

"It was a guard that brought me here? It seemed more like a parade . . ."

"Oh!" Mistiana laughed, tugging her along again. "Of course you aren't familiar with the great game. During times of peace, it's how we keep active and alert."

"What is?"

"Hide and seek!" Charlie must have gaped because Mistiana's amusement pealed forth again for several seconds until she could speak again, "I knew that would surprise you! You do look absolutely darling when you're surprised. Did you know that? Your eyes get ever so large."

"But hide and seek is a children's game!"

"Everything was once a children's game," Mistiana argued. "Narnia has five guard units. Four set out and have a three days to find a hiding place, then the fifth unit begins their search. The challenge, of course, is to hide so many people while also obtaining the food and shelter needed to survive. When a unit is found, they parade home making as much noise as possible to call the other units home. Of course, the birds help and carry the song along. The game rarely takes longer than two weeks. Partly that's because after two weeks of hiding, units tend to get bored and give themselves away the slightest bit."

"So I was part of a giant game of hide and seek?"

"Yes," Mistiana beamed. "If you'd like, you can play again. The next game isn't until the end of summer but I'm sure Georgia and Camille would love to have you again. They seemed quite taken with you."

Charlie almost laughed - Susan and Peter would never believe this! That is, if she ever saw them again. If she had her choice, she'd stay in Narnia forever. It would be too bad if there really was no way to send a message back to Susan and Lucy, though, to let them know she was safe and happy. Perhaps Lucy would even visit again! She didn't know for sure that Lucy wouldn't, and that would be great fun. Another breeze brushed against her cheek and she closed her eyes for a moment, even as they walked, simply feeling content.

"I want to hear all about your life out there," Mistiana sighed, as though reading her mind. "I want to hear all about High King Peter. I'm sure you have a very romantic story!" Charlie opened her mouth to reply but stopped when she saw the flicker. Mistiana's eyes glanced for just a second at the young guard standing at the corner of the veranda. As soon as they had noticed him, her eyes darted away and a soft pink hue crept into her cheeks, no doubt because they'd approached him _as_ Mistiana said the word "romantic." Yes, Charlotte knew just how giddy and embarrassed such coincidences made a young girl. But then, as Mistiana had said, there were no coincidences. The reason that Mistiana now tugged her more quickly along was obvious.

When they were around the corner and out of ear shot, Mistiana slowed and lifted her chin as though to dare Charlie to comment on their sudden flight from the veranda and its young guard.

"Now, let me show you the whole castle so that you can move about freely. You simply must make yourself at home here," she simply continued. Charlie smiled and allowed herself to be pulled along. What a lovely time she had happened to land in Narnia!

* * *

_My apologies if this chapter feels rushed and scattered. The first chapter after a hiatus always feels bumpy to write but the next chapter should smooth everything out and clarify quite a bit.  
_


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter Sixteen**

"Down here, quick!" Mistiana cried, ducking into a stone stairwell. Lady Charlotte giggled and leapt after her, not the least worried about slipping and breaking an ankle. She'd been in Narnia two weeks now -or was it three?- and had found herself growing bolder, lighter, and gigglier. She and the queen had easily fallen into a routine that satisfied almost every need Charlotte could come up with.

In the morning, they rose early, often waking each other from where they'd fallen asleep next to each other in the queen's ridiculously large four-post bed. They dined together on Mistiana's veranda, watching the tail end of the sunrise. After that, it was down to the sea for a bath and seashell hunt. They picnicked always either on the beach or in the garden, then spent the afternoon reading or lazily chatting with anyone who happened to be around. After perhaps a brief nap, they'd venture out to explore the orchards or fields, meandering further from the castle to play and explore. Back for supper with palace residents, then out onto the verandas again for a dance with the court musicians, who were kept in practice for just such visits as these. They celebrated nothing at all until late in the night, then finally retired, too exhausted to speak another word.

Charlotte felt like a little girl in a way she never had before. Though occasionally something would trigger a smoky, distant memory of America or Paris or England, she found that the real world faded away in only a short time. Hadn't she always been in Narnia? The Royal Four she remembered, of course; hadn't she been with them here during their reign? High King Peter drifted from being a painful, scarcely mentioned topic to the subject of many a lazy, contented conversation. In only a few days, Charlotte wasn't so sure that she and Peter _weren't _in love. After three weeks, Charlotte believed all of her daydreams, and it was bliss.

The stairs Mistiana was leading her down now led to the royal treasury basement, Charlie knew. She hadn't been down here yet -for some reason, she had been hesitant before, but she couldn't remember why. Now she gladly skipped after Mistiana as they fled the path of Dmetri. That was the guard Mistiana loved. She'd admitted it now, in fits of giggles and sighs of longing because it could never be. Could it? Could a commoner marry a queen? Lady Charlotte certainly didn't see why not.

It was dark in the treasury basement, but the ladies had brought lights with them which now cast a flickering glow on the stone walls. Mistiana went straight for the maps. Despite how silly she generally seemed, she had a quick mind and a strange love for maps. Perhaps it was just a love for the great hide and seek game and a need to strategize.

Lady Charlotte was drawn without realizing it to a small room off the main hall. In here, untouched for quite some time, hung the royal garments of the Four, perched over chests with their most valued items. High King Peter's sword had been in use until Mistiana's time; she'd seen no need to use the legendary sword for daily play and stored it among its sibling weapons here. Charlotte felt a bit disgruntled that such precious relics should be shut away, rather than on honored display, but she didn't voice this.

Instead she ran her fingers over the velvet of Peter's robe. It had almost one hundred years since the High King had worn it, yet the soft blue velvet seemed hardly a day old. It matched the color of his eyes, didn't it? She picked his crown up and placed it her head, but it slid down to rest on her nose. His sword, likewise, seemed almost as tall as she was; certainly it had to be as heavy. It took her both hands to pick it up, and she'd be useless trying to wield it in battle. Peter must have grown even stronger while he was in Narnia to be adept with it.

A flicker of motion behind Charlotte made her drop the sword, embarrassed to be caught playing with such valuable items. Mistiana had never made even the slightest motion to hinder Charlotte's access or right to anything, but Charlotte had always done her best not to push boundaries. She wasn't sure if Mistiana would mind her playing with some of the most valuable items in the kingdom.

Mistiana wasn't in the room, though. Lady Charlotte had been mistaken in thinking Mistiana had entered the room; in fact, she could hear her footsteps now approaching and quickly thrust the crown and sword back into their rightful places.

"Are you all right?" Mistiana asked, appearing in the doorway with concern.

"There was a movement that scared me," Charlotte answered vaguely. Looking around the still, quiet room though, she couldn't determine what it was that could have moved. "Is there someone else down here with us?"

"I didn't see anyone go past me." Still Mistiana went back into the other room and even peered up the stairwell, calling, "Hello-o! Is anything there?" There was no reply.

"I must have imagined it," Charlotte shrugged. But even as she said it, her eyes trailed over the ground until she spotted a drainage hole near the bottom of the far wall. Were those footprints in the dust new? Or were they hers? Was it even possible for someone to have slipped through that small hole?

She decided that it wasn't and, with a smile, followed Mistiana back up the stairs to see if the coast was clear. Dmetri, to their disappointment, had moved on to another part of the castle, so they had to come up with some reason to head to that part of the castle as well. No matter where they wandered, though, Charlotte couldn't quite shake the feeling that someone was watching her.

It wasn't until late that night that Charlotte got her answer. She'd retired temporarily to her room to change into her nightgown before meeting Mistiana in her room, per usual, where they would stay up until the wee hours of the morning talking about anything and nothing. She shooed the maids away, not needing their help once they'd undone the back of her dress, promising to hang her gown up and not leave it in a pile on the floor like the Queen always did when left to undress on her own.

Dressed for bed, Charlotte had her hand on the door to leave when suddenly the candle blew out behind her. This wouldn't have alarmed her if a breeze had accompanied the sudden darkness, but the curtains were already drawn and motionless against the still night outside. Instinctively she spun in surprise

But no, the candle hadn't blown out. The flame had simply fallen off of the candle itself, rolled onto the floor, and was now rolling in a neat, contained little ball towards her.

Charlotte could only stand there frozen, listening to the small, sizzling noises as the flame grew larger in its approach and yet left no trail of scorch marks behind. Nothing caught on fire in its wake. The ball of fire was simply a creature, it seemed, and Charlotte was so assimilated into Narnia that nothing about this surprised her. She forgot that a world even existed in which flames were not living, breathing things.

"Who are you?" she asked instead, her voice trembling only slightly.

"What, not whom," the flame returned. "Don't you remember me? Or has your memory already faded? Narnia does seem to have that effect on the sons and daughters of Eve. Memories even the slightest bit unhappy are washed away and, if we are honest, the truth is always just the slightest bit unhappy."

Charlotte's eyes narrowed as she peered into the flames which had now reach the same height she stood. Vaguely she make out the dark round eyes, the curved smile. Then the tongue flickered from the flames and one withered, scaly hand reached out towards her.

"You!" she cried, remembering only that such a hand had held her once, burned her, and dragged her into the depths of the earth. "I do remember you. You raised me on a pedestal above fire, a sacrifice to your underground-"

"Yes, yes, I'm just awful," the salamander laughed. "But you are not so far behind, are you, Little Miss Lady Liar?"

"What did you call me?" Charlotte asked, standing taller and even taking a step forward angrily. No stranger could come into Lady Charlotte's room and accuse her of anything!

The salamander slid backwards in mock fear, then rushed forward and repeated more loudly, "Liar!"

"I'm no such-"

"Miss Charlotte Auburn of fourteen Rue de Rivoli, number three! _Unwanted_ house guest of Mr. and Mrs. Pevensie, number twelve, Granville Road, Finchley."  
Faintly, in the back of her mind, Charlotte got the feeling that this was supposed to mean something to her. The fact that it didn't made the panic begin to rise up her throat.

"What are you that you come into _my_ room to tell _me_ who I am?" Charlotte demanded, this time shrinking back even as she tried to sound intimidating. "You have no business-"

"And you have no business here, _Charlie_. That mark of yours is darker than ever and is spreading even now onto that stupid queen you love so much." Charlotte said nothing, only narrowed her eyes as she tried to understand. The salamander laughed, "Ah, have I hit a mark?"

"You've been following me," Charlotte said. "That was you in the-"

"I haven't needed to follow you, for you carried me for most of your day. I live in the flame, you remember. _I_ live in _your_ flame specifically, if you haven't figured that out. Someone must live in your flame, after all, and if that _cat_ isn't there, then your flame is mine for the taking."

"I don't know what you're talking about!"

The salamander shrugged, "That's not my problem. But to respond to your accusation, no, that was not me spying over your shoulder today. Another thing you have yet to notice is that I can't touch anything that's not offered to me. I couldn't have made any noise, could I? I can't even grab your hand again unless you offer it to me so you have no reason to cower like that."

"I'm not cowering!" Charlotte insisted. "And I won't be offering my hand to you."

"Ha, you're injured pride. And yet you have already forgotten what I've told you. You've put your queen in danger. Tis not I that stalks you even now, called by that mark upon your face."

Charlotte strode past him to the mirror, no longer much afraid after his admission that he couldn't touch her, and retorted, "You said that before, didn't you? But there's no mark there. Mistiana looked too and said she sees nothing, and she's the queen."

"Not of the dark world, she's not, and it's no light mark you have there upon your forehead." The salamander rolled his fiery encasement closer and peered over her shoulder. The flickering of his flame hit her just so that for a moment her eyes widened and she leaned closer. Had she just seen . . . but no, there wasn't anything there. As soon as he took a step back, the flicker or something Charlotte had seen was gone. It was just a trick of his light.

"You saw it," he gloated. "You don't want to see it, which is why you don't. You are such a good liar, especially to yourself, so that you are able to lie away your mark, but there it still is, calling to the beast that hunts you now."

Charlotte rolled her eyes, "Why would I ever believe you? You have reason to help me. You'd do everything in your power to hurt both me and Mistiana, though, including make up some monstrous beast."

"My hope, of course, is that you will come with me. We can keep you safe from the beast. We can make you a queen among us."

"You weren't exactly treating me like a queen before-"

"You had to prove yourself first. Trial by fire," he smirked. "You chose death rather than discomfort and therefore have proven yourself."

"Well I'm not coming with you, so you'd better leave."

"If you think, you will remember," the salamander suggested. "You will remember that you do not belong here and that you have brought evil into this kingdom. You don't want to believe me when I say that you are putting the queen in danger, but you fear it in your heart. You will continue to hope that I am lying to you now until it is too late, until you hold your dead queen in your arms. And then you'll call for me, and it will be too late for me to help you."

"I'd die before I let anything happen to Mistiana," Charlotte gallantly avowed.

"You will not be the one that dies," was the salamander's casual reply. With a flicker and soft hiss, he was gone and the room was plunged into darkness.

Charlotte took several minutes to compose herself before bounding up the stairs to Mistiana's room. She hesitated only a moment before knocking and throwing open the door, almost scared of what she'd find. But the queen was stretched across the bed, her nose buried in a book, happily alive.

"You took so long!" Mistiana sighed, motioning for Charlotte to crawl into the bed with her. "I'm to the part where the prince discovers that she's not a princess after all, but just a lowly milkmaid. I do hope he loves her enough that it doesn't matter!"

"Does it matter? Does it really?" Lady Charlotte pressed, latching onto the one subject that could pull her out of her dark reverie: love and romance. Hadn't she use to hate both? She got the nagging suspicion that she had, but she couldn't remember why . . . She lounged on the bed beside Mistiana, taking the queen's long fingers and kissing them happily. "Do you really, when it all comes down to it, care that Dmetri is not a prince?"

Mistiana gasped, scandalized. Though it was always understood whom they were discussing when the topic of love came up -always either Dmetri or Peter- Dmetri's name was never explicitly mentioned. To do so now was not offensive, only surprising, salacious even.

Mistiana gasped once again and, giving Lady Charlotte a playful shove, demanded, "What! You laugh at me now, after all this time?"

"I'm not laughing-"

"Then you are serious tonight," the queen reflected, her laughter dying as she studied Lady Charlotte's face. "You are as serious as though death is upon you. What ever is the matter-"

"Oh, nothing is the matter," Charlotte insisted, trying to laugh light-heartedly. "Only I fear you are wasting so much time that you might be happy, all because of fanciful notions of propriety. At the end of the day, do you really, truly love Dmetri? Or do you simply love having someone to love?"

Mistana had never been asked such a question before; she and Charlotte were never so serious. What reason was there to be serious when the world was at play? Still she paused and thought, and Charlotte watched the emotions flit over her face.

"I do love him," Mistiana finally explained, rolling onto her face to avoid Charlotte's face. "He is handsome and kind. He is more responsible than I am and braver. He has fought against the Salamanders multiple times and never hesitated. I suppose . . . I suppose I am simply enjoying the game as long as I can."

"Before?"

"Before there is no going back, and he must admit to me that he does not love me in that way, or that he thinks I'm silly or foolish."

"The queen is afraid of rejection!" Charlotte laughed genuinely this time. She cuddled up closer to Mistiana, forcing the queen to look at her, and insisted, "I do not think that is possible."

"He doesn't talk to me. He'll barely look at me. He is polite only because I am the queen-"

"Or because he's as scared as you are. After all, you are the queen and so he has less hope of success than you do."

"Just because I am queen? But that doesn't matter. You either love or you don't, regardless of your station or access to all the eligible princes and soldiers and sailors in the land."

"Perhaps you should tell him that," Charlotte gently suggested. The queen's expression vacillated between terror and joy. Charlotte watched the changes as soft music began in the background. Trumpets, trombones, a piano, a low, clear cello picked up, the tempo picking up as the volume rose.

The second she realized that music was playing, Charlotte frowned and sat up. Big Band- that's what it was. A brass section playing songs like this had no place in Narnia. Her eyes flitted around the room to the corner where the music seemed to come from, but there was nothing there, certainly not an entire brass band. and why did Lady Charlotte know it was a brass band was to begin with? Why were these songs familiar?

"Charlotte?" Mistiana asked tentatively, sitting as well and delicately taking Charlotte's hand. "Dear friend, what's wrong? You look as though you've seen a ghost!"

"Peter isn't here," Charlotte posed, somewhere between a question and a statement. "He hasn't been here in a long time. I know him from . . ."

"From your own world, of course," Mistiana encouraged. "That England place you used to talk about so contemptuously."

"England . . ." Charlotte repeated. Flashes of memories danced through her mind: a decorated cathedral, a pianoforte in the corner, a plate of cookies, a warm fire.

A sneering blond-haired creature with an upturned nose and a streak of cruelty in her heart.

Even as she remembered England clearly for the first time since her arrival in Narnia, a flash of something dark at the window made her stumble backwards off the bed in fear. Momentarily the moonlight had been blocked out, as though someone had thrown a blanket over it. No sooner had she landed on the floor, she leapt to her feet and rushed to the window. Red eyes met her, peering over the windowsill, but as her hands touched the window, they fled, the moon returned, and the world outside the window was peaceful once again. It all happened so fast that Charlotte hardly realized she'd even moved from the bed.

"Charlotte!" Mistiana had been repeating for several seconds now. She hurried to her friend's side and grabbed her hands, demanding to know what was the matter.

Charlotte continued to look out the window, asking, "Did you hear the music?"

"What music? No, there was no music."

"Music from England . . ."

"From your home!" Mistiana gasped. "Oh, perhaps Aslan is letting you know that you're going home soon! You do seem to have forgotten so much of home; perhaps he is gently reminding you what it's like so that you won't be so started when you return. And then you will be reunited with Peter! I shall miss you dreadfully but will bear the separation knowing you're going back to him."

Charlotte's heart sank as memories crashed heavily on top of her now. She had no home in England. She could never be reunited with Peter because they had never been united in the first place. Perhaps Aslan would send her home, but then she would have nowhere to go. Susan would learn of the wedge Charlie had almost placed between her brother and his love and hate her for it. Even kind-hearted Mr. Pevensie would ask her to leave, and Charlotte would be more alone than ever before. She couldn't go back!

But that hadn't been Aslan at the window, of course. She'd never seen the Lion, but she knew he wouldn't have red eyes and creep around windows. It was the beast, the beast stalking her, the beast that even now was planning the death of Mistiana, if only to punish Charlie. Perhaps the Salamander was lying, but could Charlotte really take that chance?

She turned to face the concerned queen, who even now was calling for a servant to bring her warm milk and a cool cloth, certain Charlotte was about to faint. Never a thought for herself, this queen. Always happiness and light and love. Just the thought of her lying lifeless on the bed made Charlotte nauseous.

She accepted the milk when it was brought and tried to relax. It took only seconds for her to formulate her plan, but it would take a few hours to put it into effect. Just the resolve that she was saving Mistiana's life, though, calmed her.

"There, that's better," Mistiana beamed, gently rubbing Charlotte's back as she sipped the milk. "I'm afraid you _are_ seeing ghosts tonight, but don't you worry. Aslan protect us, we'll be just fine. I'm sure you've just worn yourself out being so serious. No more talk of boys tonight!"

"Fair enough," Lady Charlotte offered meekly. Looking for something to distract the queen and bring back the calm, amiable mood, she asked, "Do you really think we can take a trip to Archenland? I'd love to see more of the world . . ."

* * *

It was late before Mistiana fell asleep. Later than Charlotte wished, though she secretly relished every extra moment in her friend's presence. Even once Charlotte had feigned exhaustion and fallen asleep, Mistiana had lain awake beside her for the longest time, her hand resting comfortingly on her hair, as though she sensed the impending departure.

Once Charlotte was certain Mistiana was asleep, she slipped quietly and quickly from the bed. The typical guard stood out the door but only nodded and grinned lazily at Charlotte as she left the room, used to the erratic nightlife of the girls. Charlotte made it to her room unmolested and had her few necessary belongings packed in a matter of minutes: a spare gown, a small bejeweled dagger Mistiana had given her when she'd admired it, a couple of books, and a pretty wooden flute.

She penned two notes by the light of the moon and hurried on tiptoe to slide them under the queen's door and into the barracks:

The first:

_"My dearest Queen Mistiana, Aslan has called me home and I must answer. I shall never forget you and the kindness you have shown me. May Aslan protect you in all the golden days ahead. Yours always, Charlotte."_

The second:

_"For Dmetri"_ on the front and inside the folded note:_ "The queen is shy but loves you dearly. If you love her, as I think you must, please be there for her in the morning, for I must go and she may have need of a shoulder to cry on. Please protect her and lover her as well as she deserves. Your humble servant, Charlotte."_

Notes delivered, small provisions stolen from the kitchen, Charlotte sneaked with her bundle down to the shore. The larger docks, which served as the landing point for merchant vessels, ships of war, and visiting royalty, bustled regardless of time of day; Charlotte could see and hear activity even from two hundred yards away. The small pier, though, situated just below the palace for the smaller fishing and play boats, was silent and abandoned at this late hour. Charlotte ran onto it now and eased herself into a medium sized sailboat, small enough she could row it along but large enough it didn't look like it would capsize at the first rough wave. The small sail was folded and tucked by the rudder. She had done a bit of sailing back during her Hollywood days, where yachts and sailboats were all the rage, so she figured she'd be able to get by. She found she perfectly remembered sailing. Memories of America and Paris and England came readily now, as though she'd finally come through the daze of waking from a deep sleep.

For now, though, the tide was out and there was no wind to speak of. Charlotte cast off from the pier, settled in the center, and began rowing. It was slow going but she hoped to at least be out of sight before daybreak. It would be some time before anyone would think to look for her in the sea, and by that time she would be too far gone, she hoped.

Gone, to Aslan's father's country or to the ends of the earth or to her death, but gone nonetheless, where she could finally hurt no one else.

* * *

_AN: I should probably note that despite "The Last Battle" being one of my favorite books, it doesn't fit into the timeline of this story. In that regard, this would be AU. Thought it worth mentioning so no one is counting the years and realizes it's getting close to trainwreck time . . . _


End file.
